


Between These Worlds and Experiences, These Understandings and Memories

by FluffyCookies



Series: Their Vast Worlds and Limitless Tales, Never to be Lost [2]
Category: Dissidia: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy IV, Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Angst, Character References, Dissidia 012, Dissidia Duodecim, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Graphic Violence, Language, Rating changed from T to M, Romance, includes nsfw content, mature themes, short prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2020-02-26 23:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyCookies/pseuds/FluffyCookies
Summary: Wherever they linger, Kain and Lightning are haunted by unforgiving pasts and tormented by grievous futures. Similar in ways that aren't all transparent, they learn to read each other well, to understand their own selves and one another in ways once unfounded by them, for better or for worse. 40 prompts, all Kain/Lightning-focused. Lengths per prompt range from 1K to 3K words. Updates will be inconsistent.





	1. Physicality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tangible things always felt right to her. It's no different when Kain touches her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that this portion of notes is liable to change over time as I update this fic. Some are nitpicky changes, others quite major.
> 
> Settings: They vary. They can be anything from the plain 'ol Dissidia universe to a pure AU. Most focus on the canon-verse, however. When it comes to the canon-verse I focus exclusively on the first 2 games, Duodecim and the first Dissidia (2008).
> 
> Rating change: This prompt series was originally rated T, but after drafting out its third drabble, more objectionable and suggestive elements blatantly came to the spotlight, and I'm certain more future drabbles will be more graphic in nature. Since they're not too explicit to warrant an E rating at the time of writing this, I changed the rating to M. Additionally, mature topics will show up here and there, so that's another reason why I changed it. Note that the rating could still change, depending on how I wish to execute some drabbles.
> 
> (Outdated) Update schedule: I'm shooting to update this series on a rough weekly schedule, but that can change from time to time. Blame life (or, if it's a quicker update than usual, yay!). Specifically, I aim to update this every 4 to 8 days.
> 
> My profiles and contact info: FF.net - https://www.fanfiction.net/u/6848039/  
> AO3 - https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyCookies/profile  
> Email - missfluffycookies@gmail.com

_I - Physicality_

Sucking in a long, worn breath that’s glutted with sea salt and wet stone, Lightning sits in a cradle of midnight-soaked grass.

Resolute and sharp, her fingers glide along the leathery handle of the knife she’s kept inside of her pouch for so long. She twists it around, sees all the curvy and keen angles of the clean steel; the practical cutting edges that taunt the corners of her tired mind, reminding her of yet another thing she still doesn’t understand. _Serah._ It’s a name, and it’s probably something important, but that’s all she gets out of the bastard of remembrance.

Captured starlight and firelight gleams along the blade as it beckons the whole universe to a narrow glint of aluminum. On the flat of the steel, she sees herself: a physical, hollow shell of the person she once was. Moistureless blood inhabits the crags of an emotionless face. There’s new grit and old grit on night-lit flesh and the threadbare material of her overcoat and turtleneck. Dark-dented crescents seize the undersides of cold, imperial eyes.

_I’m such a damn mess._

It’s so damn hard to get everything about herself. _Who the hell am I?_

Her face doesn’t contort in doubt. She can’t succumb to that weakness. But now, suddenly, she wants more than ever to ram a blade down some Chaos warrior’s throat, to free herself from the grasp of rest and abandon this stupid, dim campfire.

But then — _But fucking_ **_then,_** she thinks — there is the rustle of fine grass at her side, and she’s about to snatch the hilt of Blazefire Saber out, spring up and blow whoever-it-is face’s right off, when that low, familiar baritone runs through her eardrums.

“Are you so restless that you would kill me without a thought?” With a rough snort, Kain sits up, and the pointed outlines of his helm are shadows that make him seem more beast than man.

Rolling her eyes because she knows he can’t quite glimpse her from his distance, she focuses on the auburn light of the delicate fire, scooting closer to it. Needles of grass rub her knees and shins from underneath, but she doesn’t mind them at all. She likes sharp things, tangible things. Trustful and true, they feel _right_ to her.

“Maybe,” she replies, and her tone is strong, bold, and exhausted all at once. “You were out cold for a while, Highwind. Got a little quiet around here.”

“So you’re tired, then.” And then she wants to seethe. He can decipher bits and pieces of her well, and it still unbalances her somewhat, despite all her layers. He’s been doing it for so long, it’s a routine. And even then, he still doesn’t have all of her walls down, everything about her down. She doesn’t, either.

Rubbing the knife’s hilt with steady digits, she rests it in the lap of her begrimed thighs, eyes it without end. “Whatever. You sound tired yourself. Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll not sleep when I’ve just awoken. Why would I?” There’s the crackle of florae as he speaks, the growth of a shadow that soon overtakes her. It’s not long until she senses he’s right beside her, knifing her down with the waxy red beads of his weird-ass helmet. “Besides, I’d much rather spend my time conversing with a fair dame, even if she has the mouth of a crude seafarer and a strange fixation for causing others harm.”

Flicking the dagger around her firm grip, Lightning wonders if sleeping with his helm — _How does he even_ **_do_ ** _that?_ — gave him some sort of boost on his typical smartass comments or some crap like that. “I’m not some ‘fair dame’. You know that.”

Even though she’s not looking at him, she can tell he’s smirking. Prideful as ever, but when she does gaze at him, there’s some form of admission in the way he readjusts his sitting position. “So I do,” he says, steadfast. “But enough of that. Have you been sulking again, vile lady?”

Lightning’s lips curve for a biting retort, but there’s nothing that comes to mind. Not when he’s actually _right_ in his understanding of her this time around. _Not_ when she’s so fucking exhausted and thinks that this whole cycle of him digging into her noggin and her predicting some of his attempts and sensing his mannerisms is starting to get old, annoyingly repetitive, even though there’s still much he has to unravel about her and her about him.

Maybe it’s just the tiredness that makes her feel that way. She’s been up all this night, and even though the fringes of her anger will her to lash out at something, this time around, she can’t find herself stomping off to find something to kill now. It’s too late to do that because he’s awake, and if she tries to, he’ll get in her way, waste her time, and she knows she’s exhausted as hell and that this will take out whatever bits of energy she has left.

Finally finding something to say, she feels her expression resolve into that neat keenness it should always be in when she’s around others. “I’ve been thinking about a fuck-ton of things.”

“Oh? More battle-born memo—”

 _“Yes,_ Highwind, more memories,” she spits back. “Saw that one coming a mile away. Nothing new to talk about.”

He makes a slow grunt that’s stuffed with newfound mirth and fresh persistence. “Nothing new? Come now, Lightning,” — he shifts around, leans in closer so that his breath sends an echoing warmth down her ear, down her spine, and in the few slithers of firelight that trace his silhouette, she can see the crevices of dented armor, how deep those blanched-out scars that peek out from split metal are — “you and I know we’ve much left to uncover about ourselves.”

Lightning scowls, concedes. _Point taken._ But this isn’t the place, the time, the _world_ to do that, and he should know this. They only have so much time to banter, to peel off one veil out of millions at a time. Not that she really cared about knowing much about him, but there was something strangely, stupidly enamoring about the way that he’d always spend his free time with her, even if it drove her crazy half of the time.

“We’re fighting a war. We don’t have time for that. You’re already enough of a piece of work as it is.”

Kain chuckles. The sound is a little faint, cutting through the sordid, small silence they have. “Perhaps we do not. Not if I don’t try to dig a little deeper, that is.”

A pink eyebrow arcs upward. _What?_ For every time he does or says something predictable, he always throws out something atypical to make up for it. It drives her nuts all the time.

“What?” The knife in her hands is a forgotten artifact, lost to time.

“Do I have to spell it out in bold letters somewhere? _Come now, Lightning,”_ he says _again,_  a cruel, mocking twist pulling up a corner of his chapped lips. He takes off his helmet in a smooth movement, shakes out the fine, sleeky ponytailed hair. “I expect more from a rude, shrewd damsel such as yourself. This babble of ours _is_ tiresome, isn’t it?”

It’s confusing because that sophistic jargon of his usually gets on her nerves, but she lets the anger go, considers. And in the blink of an eye, she realizes exactly what he means, takes in an arduous breath, resists the urge to shake her head at his wise-seeming ass.

He reaches out to her, but his hand stops before it makes contact with her countenance, and his unveiled eyes seek entry, capturing her own. Couple of days ago, she would send him a _fuck no,_ swat his hand away without a thought. But there is some sort of acknowledgment that curdles in her blood tonight. They can keep playing this damn game of trying to see what makes each other tick, or take the next step and pick up the pace, maybe even help her understand her own self more.

_Stability. Sharp things, tangible things. Something to feel and act on when I’m confused as hell._

She feels her icy eyes melt just a little, feels a wall in her collapse. She’s probably gonna regret this. But even then, she’ll be better off with another physical thing to lean on. And she won’t have to worry about that nonsensical chit-chat of his. Not as much as now, anyways. _Permission granted, bastard._

Wasting no time, eager fingers run along her grimy, finely-arced cheekbone. He leans into her, molds into her smaller, feminine form. Somewhere, that hauntingly cold survival knife she held falls off her knees, but she doesn’t care. Without thinking, she crooks an arm around his neck while steely arms seize her waist. She is curved backward in a slender crescent, flexible and potent. His steeled knees straddle her own, tease her with a coldness that makes her shiver in unbridled pleasure.

No more stupid blabber that either confuses her or not. Just the sound of her flesh on his, the chilling touches of his armor on her skin.

 _Just_ hard, solid, true things over words that could be false, careless.

 


	2. Reminders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the nearing end of the twelfth cycle, he's reminded of a familiar world and its ghosts, all once unseen to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to all of the commenters who shared their thoughts on this piece. Though I'm aware readers don't necessarily owe authors reviews and/or comments, it's nice to see what some specifically think about my work. Either way, as long as readers are at least satisfied with the content and I'm happy writing it, I'm happy to keep these prompts coming.
> 
> A heads-up to the sensitive: This one's fairly graphic. Be warned.

_II - Reminders_

There is rain. There is blood. And Kain Highwind can do nothing but drift at the ravenous maw of death.

His gaze is mystified by an oily blackness that gnaws, bit by bit, on an unstable vision. Everywhere — groin, wrists, pectorals, head — there is only pain. There is no energy, no strength to see with the clarity of auroral diamonds; to inhale or exhale through burning nostrils. No power to speak through busted lips, or to move a limb that is either cut or burnt or broken.

Gravel pricks away at temples that pulse listlessly. It is very cold, very wet, and if Kain can gather all the half-thoughts and fragments of memory that stumble within a brain so frail, he thinks that they will remind him of familiar, yet different sensations. Of more dreariness, and rainfall, and eternal mist. _Of Baron’s omniscient bright clouds… and blue skies… and summery air that I… would take flight in… every day…_

His heartbeat wanes, but his desire calls on for him to rise, to fly, to _redeem oneself._ He swallows on the metallic-tasting wetness that cascades through his swollen esophagus while worn flesh gives way to new leaks of blood. Tides of hot liquid scourge between warm skin and chilling armor, and he can only see, through taut eyes, intricate threads of crimson that weave around broken fingers, through frayed sinew and keen bones, all over the obsidian-seeming Dragoon helmet that has cerise-hued eyes latched on him from afar…

There is little light, and what remains is shrinking. And he does not fear this. These feelings, these sensations, they are at their strongest now. He can _remember_ a world once so distant, and it feels like _flying,_ like something of redemption and eventual honor _…_

Yes, he would love to return to Baron. And perhaps it is time for him to do so. He will die here like any soldier, and return alive, like a survivor, to those that always understand and forgive. _To those like… like Rosa…_

“Kain! _Kain,_ goddammit!”

He cannot talk with an inflamed tongue at his throat and a gaping mouth that cannot close, but through the persistent ringing in his ears, he adores the voice. Partially obscured by ardent rainfall and the shrill of impacting steel, it is that of a woman’s, resolute and robust.

The song of shattering crystal blooms across the atmosphere and kaleidoscopic shards are faraway starbursts that give radiance to a dying perception. And yet, they aren’t the brightest things he sees.

No. Instead, they are scarlet petals. In a gaze that grows ever-darker in an already murky place, they are like stars, to him. The air smells of roses, too.

_Ah, Rosa… have you come… to guide me back to Baron…?_

The steel shrieks no longer. Crystal fragments no longer take wing in wet airstreams. It is still loud, but compared to before, Kain believes it is quiet. And now, there is the pressure of two palms on vital spots. It is so tender-feeling, so familiar to his battered mind.

“You son of a bitch. You’re not about to die. _Not_ today.”

His eyes are rolling back into his skull. This will be it. He will die, and soon fly high in Baron’s skies among all the skylarks and beyond the reach of the Red Wings…

He thinks, amid all the delirium, that he is chuckling. Whether it is his imagination or in the external world, he is not sure. He is not sure of much, really. He does not know if it is him that trembles, or the being that has come to witness his death; if it is Rosa touching him, or someone else. But he knows one thing.

_I will be higher than you, Cecil; above you and your wretched fleets… I will be more honorable…_

Everything is black. The sensations are getting fainter, numb. Decaying nerves barely register the intimate contact of white magic. It courses through mouths of slobbering flesh, through crushed bones, and it is brisk and haunting. Dully, he wishes he had the strength to smile, because even though he cannot see the magic, he remembers the color well. It reminds him of Rosa’s viridescent, ripe eyes.

And yet…

The force behind the sorcery is not at all reminiscent of Rosa’s. Where patient fingertips ought to glide over cracked ribs, instead, hasty hands claw at open arteries, trying much too desperately to seam together his ragdoll of a body all at once. He can narrowly feel legs hook around his waist. Rosa never touched him this much… no, she would only touch _Cecil_ this way, because only he is fit to have her, as much as it bothers Kain.

“Breathe, Highwind. _Breathe.”_

Despite all the differences, though, he is only reminded of his homeland. _Despite_ all the rain, the darkness, the haze, Baron is all that he recalls, sunny and light and clear. The harsh, intolerant cures that scrape his insides remind him of Rosa's tender, understanding ones. He remembers a land where he is forgiven, loved, given reprieve. It is not at all cruel and merciless like this one is.

The white magic finally finds something in his body to work with. It joins split bones together, reconnects fallen tissues and sinuses, and inhalations that were rattly and pathetic are becoming strong and steady. He is becoming coherent again. His eyes roll forward, and his perception is lucid after what he feels to be a century.

He lives on. And there is some form of sadness, or regret, that pulses through him at that.

_Forgive me, Rosa…_

There is still blood, and immense dirtiness on him, and all of those now fuzzy-seeming memories. The white magic that made him feel clean and warm is now gone. The world surrounding him is no longer grainy or blurry, but now his thoughts are. A strange bargain between the mind and body, he believes. And when he looks up, unable to move a sore muscle or bone, there is a drape of pink hair that covers eyes he remembers to be ice. Amid the raindrops and sturdy wind, he can hear the unruly exhalations that pry themselves from her throat.

Moist, sleek tresses are stuck to her pale, manikin-splattered, drenched face. Her cape is a wave of crimson that is torn and cursed with gunpowder and foul carbon, assaulted by still-falling rain.

Lightning has been straddling him, he realizes. She feels soft and delicate now, like Rosa… like she forgives him for what he has done to the others this twelfth cycle…

The rational part of his mind chides in. _Of course, she does not._ And so, he is undeserving of her assistance. He should have died. White magic exhausts the caster greatly, and she used it on him.

He grits his teeth, wants to despise himself more as guilt trots on through him. Without his helmet, nothing conceals the weakness that adorns his wavering eyes. So the hurt — at himself, at her, at Rosa, at _everything,_ perhaps, because he truly is not certain — flashes unveiled, on a face he realizes is jittery.

Lightning gives him something of a glare, something of a stare. He can finally see her eyes, and at first, they seem sharp as always, unshaken. Domineering. Like she is in control of everything about herself and everything around her. Then he looks closer and sees the hesitant honesty in the way they seem to shake, in the way she seems to force herself to read the implications of his own features.

“Kain,” — rough breaths follow as she unwillingly applies more pressure on his vital spots, too strained to withdraw herself — “you… you ass.”

After what he thinks to be a century, he speaks, and the intonation is a little too unsure, a little too weak. “Lightning… thank you.”

He means it in more ways than one.

Kain raises a hand that quivers, and he almost wants to mock the sight of the weakness. Dragon-like fingertips run through Lightning’s dim curls, and shock briefly widens his gaze when he does not feel her smack his hand away. She shudders under his touch. _No,_ he thinks as the realization barrels through his head; she has _been_ shuddering, long before he touched her.

He still does not know who exactly trembles the most, or why _exactly_ they tremble at all, or what _exactly_ runs through _their_ minds now.

The way she leans her cheek into his palm, all silent and eerily still, he knows he does not deserve this feeling. It feels like something of redemption, of eventual honor.

It is like something of roses, even if she now only smells of carbon. Like something of forgiveness, even if she does not absolve him of his past actions.

In Dissidia, he is merely a pitiful knight, deprived of all things bright and beautiful. Here, he is not fit to fly. He is disgraceful, a part of himself or all of himself believes.

 _And yet._ He cannot deny this strange feeling of honor that runs through him as he rubs her cheek.

When Lightning speaks, she sounds a little off too, he senses. “Don’t you _dare_ die on me. On _us.”_

Kain has no strength and does not dare smirk. There is no time for playful babble and there never will be again. He is too uneasy, too feeble, too guilt-infested. So he only nods in response and says what his mind declares to be the truth.

“I was reminded… of many things.”


	3. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As nice as her real name is, she's really not sure if it's fit for a creature like herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those unaware: Chapter 1's notes have been updated. I recommend taking a gander at them. My (rough) update schedule is included in them along with new information about this series. Explanations regarding why I shifted the rating from T to M are also available there.
> 
> Warnings: The way this draft turned out is a big reason as to why the rating went up (and on the violent side of things, the last drabble was also a tad bit objectionable, which also influenced the rating change). Blatant nudity and graphic elements that can squick out readers are present in this one. Proceed accordingly.
> 
> Another thanks: Seriously, you guys' feedback is the best. I get all warm and fuzzy on the inside from reading all these comments. :)

_III - Names_

Sometimes, Lightning wonders if she misses her old name. And by sometimes, well, it feels like _too_ many times to her.

She remembered it on the dusk of a ruthless evening among many ruthless evenings. It’s something she’s left behind, back in her homeworld.

Claire Farron. A normal, simple name. Nothing too alien or strange. Authentic and plain. The antithesis of an alter ego. Humanlike.

 _But_ — she crosses her arms, kicking at the silvery currents of Order’s Sanctuary with her bare feet, watching the ripples that form — _am I really human?_

Uncertainty leaves cold eyes floundering. It reaches her mind faster than her namesake. She expels a sigh, shakes her head, rubs gentle fingers over the familiar necklace on her chest. It feels _right,_ her jewelry. It’s this feeling that always rebalances her when she thinks she’s lost and unsure and there’s nothing to immediately dominate. Nothing to control.

Despite her actions, though, her mind betrays them. _I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know._

Names establish identities. And with that clusterfuck of a tattoo she's got on her breast, chewing into her soul and spewing nonsense like _Lindzei_ and _Pulse_ in her head, she thinks ‘Claire’ sounds too normal of an identity for _something_ like her.

On the other hand, there’s Lightning. The jaws of an enraged storm. Destruction incarnate. Controlling and dominant, it reigns supreme over weak lands and pitiful skies. Imperially eye-catching. Beautifully merciless.

She's glad she's not wearing her overcoat, gloves and thigh bag today, because the disorderly wind that passes through her is now more easily felt, electrifying to worn nerves. _It's almost too perfect of a name for a creature,_ she aimlessly thinks, pushing away the waves of hair that splash against her stoic face. _It belongs to a pissed off monster._

There are ghosts surfacing in her head, and she wants them to get lost. They say that she was laughably pathetic, stupidly weak when some older Farron was becoming ill. And idly, Lightning regrets many things when she finally heeds these spirits. She’s not sure what all of them are, what all these sad, empty-feeling thoughts imply. _Shouldn't have left Blazefire in the armory. And the holster. Those things are real_ _and concrete. I had such a normal, simple_ _name. Something real._

But really, she’s not _sure_ if those are the most pressing things to regret. Or if that’s the _maybe-_ fact that in another life, another _world,_ she would like to feel completely human again. Because even though she knows what humans are — living phenomena with beating hearts and organs and tissues and guts and some other crap, _duh_ — she still doesn’t know if she’s just a _maybe-_ human or a full-blown menace. And she really doesn’t know if not having a type of humanity that was once there in her, deep down, freaks her out or not.

_I’m not scared out of my fucking mind. I’m not scared. I’m. Not. Fucking. Scared. I’m not weak. I’m not normal._

The voice that shatters her thoughts has the hiss of a fiend meant to be unseen. _You are ours. You_ **_will_ ** _obey us._

Evil pain flares on her breast, forces her to slightly double over as she gnashes her teeth together. She shoves razor-sharp fingertips onto her chest and unzips some of her now blood-soaked turtleneck. The sight of the exposed skin is so, _so_ atrocious.

Obsidian, spider web-like patterns stretch outward from her throbbing bosom like slithering, elongating snakes and leeches. At first, they seem like senseless swirls sprawling further into valuable, humane flesh, but then she looks closer, sees the lattice of chaotic arrows and sprouting welts that meld into her skin, _all_ of the sinful stories they tell of the monster she either is or is inside her. Knife-deep agony engraves her aching breasts, and although she can’t see the hideous-as-fuck patterns on them because they’re underneath the fabric that was once clean, she knows what they look like. How far and wide they _go;_ how the madman creating them from nothing molds them as they please…

_You are ours, l’Cie…_

_Shut up. Shut up._ **_Shut up._**

Impatient magic wells up behind azure irises and veiny scleras, rakes through sore and brittle bones. Before she knows it she’s on her knees, and the cold water that hits them only adds to the hot wetness that cleaves through her shirt without end. Doubt feasts on a skull that trembles, and between the fresh gibberish that intrudes her mind and the loss of most physical control, Lightning’s barely able to grasp her necklace with both hands.

 _Anima._ The lightning bolt pendant indents her shivering palms. _Gran Pulse._ It’s metallic, impure and splattered with blood. _Cocoon._ She pulls in an unsteady breath, looking down at the milky ripples of pure water. _Serah._

It’s the last thought that makes her remember a bit of the world she was snatched away from. Pink, ponytailed hair. Cerulean eyes that lacked ill intent. A smile greater than any Lightning had ever made, turned into a certain frown. Serah's voice was syrupy-soft, unlike hers. It echoes through the corridors of her mind seamlessly. _Why change your name? Mom gave you it. You shouldn’t throw it away._

Lightning doesn’t recall her exact response, but she can tell her rage was the rawest, sharpest thing at that moment. A tone more cutting than her blade itself. And then Serah says another thing.

 _Fine,_ **_sis._**

Trying her best to tolerate the insufferable ache that clenches her torso — an ache she's not sure was born from this memory or from her brand — Lightning breathes out a thin chuckle but wears anything but a smile on her tight face. _Serah was probably right. Probably._

Creamy pus spurts out from her scabrous, bubbling chest. Mixed with blood and whatever else is inside the abomination that she is, mucous braids of it glissade onto her abdomen, leaving putrid, trailing evidence of her inhumanity.

The visions that scour her head are bone-deep horrifying. _A great beast, tearing asunder a spherical paradise of life. Herself, becoming that creature in a mess of rotten sinewy cords and sun-bright veins as she wails. Her body, losing dominance and succumbing to mindless ruin…_

She’s so lost to cruel, nightmarish mind games that she scarcely hears water-ridden steps thrum to life from behind her, where nobody can see the mess that she is. The way she’s quivering and hunched over, it’s no wonder she got somebody’s attention.

 _I was_ **_sure_ ** _that no one else was around here…_

It’s a miracle that she can speak through the torture of her agony with her normal tone. “What do you want?”

“To see why you’re confining yourself to your lonesome for the trillionth time.” It’s a strong, male voice that sails the tide of the passing breeze well. Kain. He’s got a thin shawl of hubris and deception and Lightning knows it’s a facade.

“Points for trying,” she retorts, resisting the desire to show a sign of being in pain; to let the evidence of her inhumanity get out scot-free. “But you think you can prod me, you’re dead wrong. So screw off.”

“Seething already, aren’t you? Do tell me what’s wrong.”

The footsteps pound her perception again. And because she thinks she looks stupidly weak, she suddenly couldn’t give two shits about the status of her humanness. All that matters is control and rage and **_shut up_ ** and **_fuck_ ** _you, Kain._

Tense muscles stretch as she springs up to her feet. Hostility at _something,_ maybe _everything,_ pilots her fist, lights up a fire in her enlarging eyes. She savors that satisfying _thump_ on her gnarled, gloveless hand. Kain’s head jerks back at the impact, but she can tell he’s seen the alien stuff that looms on her heaving chest, the blood and nasty liquids that scrawl her torso and skirt with restless ooze.

Now, she’s still. She doesn’t dominate anymore. That punch made her feel _real_ again. In control. The liquid magic that’s been boiling inside her relents. On the surface — on human skin — though, the pain still keeps coming. She refuses to let it make her fall to her knees again. It’s much more bearable, duller now, the pain.

A low, thin, short laugh frees itself from Kain’s lips as he composes himself. It’s laced with a sort of bitterness she doesn’t quite understand. Blood slips down the contours of his finely-boned face from a meanly curved lip. Until now, Lightning didn’t know that Kain was only dressed in dark breeches. No shoes. In the wake of a fresh airstream, ash hair strings around his keen features. He rubs his lower lip, rejoins her gaze.

He’s not smirking. And it’s obvious as to why, Lightning figures.

“Your chest. Your _body._ What is — ”

“I don’t _fucking know,_ Highwind.” Lightning wants to cringe at how unsure she sounds, at how human she sounds. It doesn’t feel real or right.

Kain comes closer. Heat slides onto her midriff as he does. Instinct has Lightning throwing another fist his way, but he seizes her arm without looking away from her eyes.

His eyes darken with an inquiry she doesn’t want to see or respond to. So she shuts her own. And yet, she knows exactly what _his_ ask her. _How do you feel?_

“Hands off,” she snaps, finally yanking her wrist away. “Just… fuck off.”

Her request, of course, doesn’t work.

“This is getting tiresome, Lightning,” Kain replies, and Lightning can still feel the pressure he pins on her gaze. “Now, _tell me_ what’s wrong with you.”

Anyone else would think his assertion implies the most obvious meaning. But Lightning reads him well and knows what he really means. He’s almost always transparent, after all. She considers snapping back at him like she normally does, but this situation’s not normal. Not routine.

 _You’re right, Kain. It_ **_is_ ** _getting old._

She opens her eyes, meets his own, and they flash with brutal passion. _I’m scared out of my goddamn mind,_ they finally answer.

Because this is a very abnormal moment, she doesn’t think too much about her privacy when she unzips the rest of her turtleneck, lets it fall off her shoulders and down her slender arms. In a smooth motion, she strips off her worn out sports bra, feels the wind birth plump gooseflesh on battle-bruised skin. Clothes fall into once pristine water while her necklace remains on her exposed flesh. Shameless and still, she bares all the evidence there is to see.

The patterns on her breasts are exactly how she envisioned them to be. They’re every bit of venomous and bestial, sculpted out of onyx-hard, crystal-bright foreign matter. Blood and other gunky, yellow and transparent fluids run down her curves, leaving slimy-slick streams in their journey. Her hands hang limply at her sides.

“I was thinking about my name. About my identity. About what the hell I am.”

Undeterred, Kain’s eyes follow the sinful arrangement that’s etched all over her bosom. She knows he understands what she means, what _those_ marks mean. From what she sees, there’s a glint of lust from one angle of his countenance and a hint of clear-cut concern in another. A multitude of desires carved in a face so fine.

“Obstinate wench,” he says, taking hold of her bloodstained necklace. Its lightning bolt takes indifferent daylight hostage. Lightning can tell he’s trying hard to hold back from succumbing to his brewing desire, from the way he keeps himself distant just by a few inches; from how his eyes settle back on her rack time and time again, despite all the bizarre markings there. “Admit to such things sooner.”

Lightning watches him intently as he refocuses on the pendant. “Why do you care so much?”

“It is not so delightful,” he begins, facing her, “to see you brood over anything.”

“Tch. Cute, Highwind.”

When Kain finally gives in, leans in on her and releases her necklace, his bare torso feels lukewarm against her frigid breasts. Her exotic flesh, impure pus, and gore smear themselves onto his pure, human flesh, true and visible. The freezing jewelry lingering just over the valley of her cleavage, caught between her and Kain, completes the strange _rightness_ of it all. It compels her to mold into his touch, to mesh into the hollows of his build.

“But really,” she starts, resting her hands on the thick pectoral muscles of his chest and setting her head on them. “I had a nice name.”

“What was it?” His chest rumbles beneath her as he speaks, and she smirks a quicksilver smirk until she straightens and gazes at his face again.

“Earn it.” Challenge prospers in her clean, sharp articulation.

Before she sees it coming, his mouth captures her own. Strong arms fold around her arching back as she slides domineering hands onto the sides of his face. Coarse hair entangles her fine fingers, mixes in with the blood that’s still there on his face.

The oozy wetness between their crushing bodies feels just like the bloodied saliva that trails down from their fervent kiss. Human. Strangely normal. A strong, metallic taste clings to her taste buds while crimson fluid trickles down her chin, swooshes within her mouth and around her moving tongue. Their lips part and Kain soon digs fast kisses into the crook of her neck. He scours her clavicle area in a mess of pecks and nips, running slick fingers along her sides and up her soaked, throbbing breasts.

Nimble, hungry fingers pinch her wet nipples. Wasting no time, they splay themselves upon her bosom, gliding along goosebump-infested, dripping curves in fast circles. Eager and imprudent, they stop to grab and squeeze human-soft breasts. Quickly, they return back to sliding around her moist-slickened chest. Lightning can’t withhold the longing moan that rushes through her mouth. Beneath them, their feet send little splashes of soiled water every which way.

Kain returns to her mouth, re-laces muscular arms around her curved back, but he doesn’t meet her lips again. Lightning can decipher the narrow restraint in him. It’s written in the slight withdrawal he makes, in the receding strength of his arms.

Hot breath dances onto her cerise, swollen lips when Kain speaks. “Now. _Tell me.”_

A brief silence lingers between them, impatient and tense. It has the tang of unnatural slowness, of careful decision-making.

“Claire Farron,” she finally says, creasing tender arms around his neck. A delicate smirk wriggles itself onto her mouth.

“Such a beautiful name.” Then he pauses, lashes out with darkening, questioning irises. “Why would you change it?”

“It made me feel weak.” Old-feeling and unsure, the words don’t feel natural on her tongue. “And now that I’m a monster or some crap, I don’t think it fits me.”

Kain smirks back at her. “Complete nonsense, _Claire.”_

Weary, she moves her arms down and coils them around his waist, reclines her cheek on the vast expanse of his chest, snorting softly. “Shut up, _Kain.”_

“You aren’t at all a fiend,” he drawls, fording a rough palm through her scalp. “You are anything but one. Do not play at tomfoolery, please.”

The words foreclose further argument, despite herself being present. They fade over the quiet waves of water that slosh lazily against their ankles. As Lightning eyes the viridian, curvy streaks of light that stretch above Sanctuary and below ashen clouds, a quick gush of rage pours through her stomach, breaks her small smirk. She almost thinks what he’s said is utter bullshit. Almost.

Instead of giving into anger, she lets his words echo in her ears, considers. Seconds or minutes or whatever fly by. However long it takes, she eventually gives in to them, because they’re so potently _true,_ those words, as stupid as they sound. True, like everything about him physically feels right now — human and trustworthy and normal. Validating. He sees her only as any human being, and all the proof to back up his jargon is right there, in his narrowly restrained touches and advances. Bold and firm and strong, he just feels... nice.

She suppresses the searing spark of pride that strives in her gut. _Point._

Looking back up, she nods. Her expression is already resolved back into its trademark solemnity.

 _“Fine,”_ she finally concedes, cupping his chin with strong, controlling hands. “Don’t be such a smartass about it.”

Kain inclines, his mouth eager to rejoin her own. It’s pure constraint, Lightning observes, that keeps him inches away from her lips.

“Oh? But running a smart mouth is one of my many specialties.”

“I hate you,” she murmurs. Despite her words, the voice that wraps around them has little tinges of tenderness at its edges.

“How very polite of you to say, my lady.”

Slowly, he closes the gap between their mouths. More drool spills from their reunited, opening and closing lips.

She’s sure she’s not entirely human, and yet, his words are undeniably true. _I’m a fucking idiot,_ she thinks. The labyrinthine marks on her chest don’t retreat or shrink along with the persisting pain, but she doesn’t care about them, or about the squalid shit from inside her that still dribbles down their bodies.

No. Not at all. She just feels _right,_ now. Like she’s not some sort of complete monster or _destruction incarnate._ Like she’s a normal, simple human that deserves a normal, simple name.

As she savors the tight kiss they share, she also savors the untainted humanity inside her. It doesn’t leave her feeling weak or pathetic this time.

Now, she feels human. _Now,_ Claire Farron truly feels real and right.


	4. Sincerity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tries his best to be as sincere as he can; to be as truthful as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Series length: asdfghjkl. So yes, a length has been decided. There will be a grand total of 40 drabbles. As much as I want to continue this series forever, there are other projects I want to dedicate my time to in this fandom, and this is just one of the first few I'm working on for it. I hope that these drabbles will always be timeless and enjoyable, whether this series is finished at the time one reads it or is still being updated with more drabbles to come while one reads the released ones.
> 
> Drabble lengths: While I specified this in Chapter 1's notes, I think it's worth noting that most of these turn out being roughly around 1.5K words. I find that to be an ideal length — doesn't take as much time to write, edit and proofread, and a drabble this long is sufficient enough to flesh out and develop the narrative and characters to a satisfying enough degree in my kinds of stories.

_IV - Sincerity_

Kain sits in a makeshift tent, below meticulous constellations that meander in a black sky.

Involuntarily, he shudders and rubs his sleeved arms. The timeworn material of his doublet wrinkles in tandem with the slow, repeating motions. Just like any other desert night, Mirage Sandsea’s is freezing and pervasive. Imperious, gritty gales beat on worn out tent flaps, running unstoppable fingers through his knotted hair. Sporadic specks of sand scuttle upon his scrunching philtrum, collude with the filth that is sheltered within every dent of cloth and smeared on baked skin.

Gungir is rested upon his aching lap. Battle-born indentations of many sizes wind up the spear’s spiral shaft, rub bitter-thick skin thin. He holds the neck of the spear with careful hands, surveys the corroding, blunt blades that were once so finely edged like the talons of a mighty dragon.

He is no different from the weapon, really. As its roughened spirals are inundated by ever-shifting grit, every burning orifice in his body suffers the omnipresent dust of Mirage Sandsea. Gungir does not aim skyward right now in a grip that is normally unyielding just as he does not look upward with usual resolve, even as he hears the tent flaps shift.

He need not shift his sight to know who it is. The glare he feels pierce away at him is all he needs to identify them.

The silence they share is not taut with suspense. It is smooth and gentle, despite themselves. He breaks it. “Are Laguna and Jecht keeping watch?”

“Mhm. Couldn't stand them.”

Kain releases a thin chuckle, finally meeting her stare. There is dirt caked all over her face, written all over her frame. Greenish bruises are laced upon her crossed arms, and they continue on wherever his gaze lands on her, darkening into sick tinges of purple and blue. They cross through scabrous, burnt legs. He feels bad for not having nearly as many injuries, but he refuses to show that. He knows that Lightning will not care for his concern and that his ego will only suffer as a result.

“Ever the social butterfly, aren't you, Lightning?”

She snorts, wiping away at some of the dried blood that's nestled around her nose. “Look who's talking.”

She sits on her knees near him and unclips her miraculously intact cape. Pressing a careful hand on a shoulder blade that’s out of his sight, she breathes, slowly and steadily. Rich, white magic — at least, he _thinks_ it’s precisely white magic — flows from her fingers, coalescing around where she’s applying pressure.

Fresh blood bubbles and pours out from the unseen wound, slides down onto the tent sheets and stains them red, and he sees her expression knot in undeniable pain. Kain sets Gungir to the side and scoots closer to her, and it's not long until he sees the cut. Lengthy and septic, the laceration stretches from a keen shoulder blade to the small of her back, and it glows bright red with determined magic. Gradually, it paints the surrounding, tattered material of her overcoat crimson there; where acute blade met supple epidermis.

Somehow, her cape kept all of this from plain view; even though the blood was leaking through it, he hadn’t been perceptive enough to consider the underlying cause of it.

The mouth of flesh salivates red liquid and sizzles under her touch. It only gapes more and more.

He notices her wince, lashing out at him with defensive eyes. “I can handle this myself.”

Her glowing fingers prance around in incoherent paths along knolls of muscle and thin depressions of skin. Shaky and unsteady, they’re not sure where to go, where to focus, where to properly start seaming the wound.

Kain shakes his head. “Don’t be foolish. You need help.”

He knows she’s practical enough to not deny that. It’s just her independent nature getting in the way. Again.

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, finally withdraws her arm from her wound. Her blood-wettened fingertips take refuge in her lap, still and obedient.

“I’ll admit it,” she says, looking away, where he can’t see her suck up her disdain. “I just made it worse. But you’re no medic either. You’ll make it worse _-worse.”_

He rolls his eyes. “Possibly. But I’ll not stand by while you _evidently_ worsen it.”

Reaching into his waist pouch, he fishes out the sleek body of his thankfully-not shattered potion. He’s about to uncork the beryl bottle, hook decisive fingers around its swirly, dirt-encrusted cap when he hears Lightning verbalize a sharp “no”.

“Keep that for yourself. You need it more.”

He almost retorts before realizing that she’s right. She can at least attempt to heal herself. On the other hand, he cannot do such a thing at all. Sliding the vial back in his pouch, he lets out a sigh. “As the stubborn dame decrees.”

If Lightning acknowledges his remark, she doesn’t let on in the way she roughly exhales before turning to face her back toward him. She doesn’t look over her shoulder, where he can glimpse her eyes.

“Just… guide my hand across it,” she tells him, bringing her arm to her back. “I’m a bit of a crappy medic, but I can tell you where to put it.”

Kain reaches to grab her wrist, but his hand hesitates, not making contact. Against his will, his expression contracts under the whims of his brewing agitation.

He hears her tap her free hand on the tent floor, and she does so at a restless rate. Then she speaks. “Stop being a slowass and grab it already.”

 _I’ve never touched a lady like this_ or _I fear I will indeed worsen it,_ he wants so badly to say, but he falls back on his pride anyway. “Patience, wench.”

Again, he hesitates. _Again,_ he suffers another snide comment.

“Seriously? You don’t have the balls to help me heal myself?”

Kain doesn’t respond, but his gut knots itself in unmistakable uncertainty, in spite of himself. Recollecting the wounded bits of his pride, he tries his best to shake off the odd anxiety that’s strangling him. With a few deep (and quiet) breaths, he finally takes hold of her wrist. He’s got the cold leather of her glove in a loose grasp, and the hand beneath it is tense with purpose, not at all limp.

Lightning lets out a rough “hmph”. “Guess you really are a scary ass.”

Kain nearly struggles to formulate an equally unkind reply. “And I suppose you are indeed a vulgar tramp.”

To his secretive amazement, she does not take the bait. “Whatever. Move my hand lower.”

He obliges, sucking in his half-prepared critical comment. Fairytale, verdant magic pulses around her arcing digits, and skittish tendrils of it lap upon his soft grip. It’s warm and rich, just as he remembers it to be. The blood beneath her touch doesn’t froth up again, but it still gains a powerful glow. To him, it’s like a brilliant, red streamer that frolics in a thriving breeze, unyielding.

“Higher. Slowly,” she instructs, and he heeds her request.

Bird-curled hands move skyward, spewing fresh magic that weaves around messy sinew. But then he hears her grunt, and like a faucet that’s been turned off, the sorcery fizzles out under her fingers, and its gorgeous brilliance is gone.

She yanks her hand away, and as it escapes from his frail hold, he watches her lean on both palms and huff continuously, hunched over and gazing downward. And the more he witnesses this unveiling frailty of hers, this silent, evident despair, the more he regrets.

“Sorry,” Lightning says after another exhalation. “Healing you from before wore me out.”

Considering her words, he muses about his own injuries. There is little to no blood over him, and he only recalls having one yellowish bruise around his nape. Rue, familiar and impendent, seizes his insides.

“Will you be fine?” He sends out the question even though he knows it’s likely pointless, because there’s a slim hope in him that it will mend her mood.

Silence swells in the gritty desert air between them. It feels stretched out, longer than it really is.

“Yeah,” she eventually answers, turning around to face him. When he finally sees her eyes, a slow, steady snake of exhaustion slithers in them. They are different from when he last saw them. Duller. More melancholic. “Sephiroth got me good. But I’ll be able to heal it later.”

In the starlit night, her injuries are malicious shadows of evil red and braille black; lubricious cuts and drab bruises. Looking at them only makes him _regret_ more. With firm intent, he beats down his rude pride, lets the softness in him finally loosen his features.

She deserves to know of solace. And it is better to attempt to give her this than to do nothing at all.

“Forgive me for hesitating from before,” he says, and he’s a little unbalanced by the small falter in his voice; by how much he really wants her to understand what he means when he gently grabs the same wrist he held before. He holds it tighter this time. “I… have never touched a woman in such a manner before, and I did not want to worsen your wound.”

He hears her snort, and her dirt-mottled features are smooth with recent tinges of amusement. There’s a flicker of gentler azure in her eyes, and the snake in them is no more. “Least you’ve _got the balls_ to be honest.”

He simply chuckles, raises her wrist so he can lean toward her hand. Lacing careful fingers around her own, he presses a tender kiss to her hand. Her chilly, leather glove doesn’t deter him. He need not feel warm flesh to better cherish the adoration that runs between them.

It’s a mystifying understanding they share. To better feel such fondness when cold things dwell between them. And as another desert wind runs through them, raising their hair and garments in unruly, unpredictable patterns, for now they are two united silhouettes in a lantern-lit tent beneath a vast, starry sky.

Kain is not a sincere man. This is just another special moment, for him. And like all moments, it will fade out of the present, whisk itself away to his enigmatic past, where it will become lost among all the other moments he’s endured in Dissidia, some more substantial than others. This one is _nothing_ compared to the recent demons of his past he’s unraveled as of late.

But this is the present now, and he does not wish for Lightning to linger in the partially-concealed sadness he feels responsible for.

So he shall cherish this moment. For _her_ sake.


	5. Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kain and Lightning make him see the skies in a different light that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV shift from the norm: Because I want to experiment with other characters and see what they think of Kain and Lightning. Also to keep things from getting stale.
> 
> AU: Hopefully, I'll be executing an AU drabble soon. Hopefully...

_V - Skies_

Once upon another realm, at a younger age, Bartz Klauser used to love being near the skies. Heights weren’t hair-raising to him, either.

 _The skies still_ **_look_ ** _nice,_ he insists, fiddling with the thin sheets of his bed. He’s been frowning, huffing, _sweating_ for minutes on end now. So he sits up, scoots to the side of the bed and dangles his feet over the edge. The coldness of his room, after all, will feel much better on his sleep-stressed nerves.

Swallowing, he thinks of what Vaan told him the day before when he admitted this fear to him. **_C’mon,_ ** _Bartz,_ and then he’d given him a little nudge, winking. _The skies are anything but scary. They’re cool. They won’t bite ya._

Afar from him, an open window’s been spilling dim starlight and nightlight onto the tiled floor, and its silk curtains twist with the yawn of a bored breeze. He feels it caress his perspired body, and its caring touch works to stabilize his skittish mind and frantic breaths.

The wind’s awesome, and he loves the heck out of it, and it’s always got his back. It’s his best friend. It reminds him of who he is and that there’s no need to freak out; that he can still be calm and alright like he usually is. Now, if only it could _instantly_ calm him down...

_But seriously. Forget exploring the skies._

He was dreaming about them. Or well, _maybe_ it wasn't a dream at all, but rather some sort of memory. A false-dream? Dream-memory? _A dream-memory-turned-freaky-nightmare? Yep. That sounds about right._

Right; okay. _Anyway._ So it was a dream-memory-turned-freaky-nightmare about him playing hide-and-seek. Smudgy, dark clouds stole away blue heavens. And he was so idiotically naive that he decided to hide near them. He ended up on a rooftop, eyeing the poor little seekers from up high — _They must've been nice friends, those guys,_ he thinks, ruffling his pillow and cherishing the natural smile that briefly takes control of his lips — and they were calling out for him. He was one with the wind, dashing in and out of every hiding place he could take.

_I was such a cheater._

The voices he recalls are those of children's, all light and honey-sweet innocent. _Betcha can't hide for much longer, Bartz!_

They were right. The skies were absolutely fed up for whatever reason at that point. They lashed out with claws of lightning, whipped him with irate gales. And while he was making a run for it, one of the lightning strikes hit a little _too_ close to him, and he found himself grasping the roof shingles in a mess of flailing limbs, screaming. The rain was there before he knew it, and he went slipping on further _down._

It’s a stupid miracle he didn’t actually fall.

He shivers, and it’s not because of the night breeze. Another one of his brisk breaths jolts through his bedroom. He can’t shut these thoughts out, no matter how hard he tries. They mock him, screw with him, force him to gaze upon fragmented dreams, nightmares, wretched _maybe-memories,_ and he can’t even close his eyes when they make him a helpless witness.

Bartz shakes his head, tries to fight the encroaching, gut-contorting feeling that’s swelling up in him, but it doesn’t work. The feeling of a newborn breeze coursing through his loungewear and stroking his skin doesn’t work this time, either. He hates that the skies are full of surprises, mocking and daring.

He swallows, hard. _Cut me some slack with the memory-dream-thingamajig nonsense, Cosmos._

He’s going through the torment his mind forces him through all over again when he hears the song of steel on steel. It’s so strong, so awesome, and it cracks through the wind’s whispers and his thoughts with stupid ease. And it lures him to his window effortlessly, where it emanates from.

Brushing away gale-blessed curtains, his eyes trace an area that’s replete with rose bushes. Vivid greenery is suffused all over spiraling marble pillars and pearly walls. Florid vines rest in coiling patterns upon glossy columns. Drapes of wall-hanging flowers sing with the aid of an airstream, and their leaves are little choirs that chant with every rustle.

One of Sanctuary’s countless gardens. For as beautiful as it is, he also thinks it’s a bit dumb, very deceiving, the sight. He’s seen it so much that it almost sickens him. Because this garden, its enchanting health, its _own_ existence, is really just another lie. It’s another lie in a nonsense war that’s been spitting at him — **_All_ ** _of us, actually_ — truth-seeming lies from the moment he found himself trapped in it.

He’s not really one for deep thinking, always one for impulses and insistent wanderings. But even this poisonous distortion of scenery that’s filling in his window frame, this shadow playing dress-up in all things bright and living and healthful and alluring, is easy for him to discern. Even with naked, unaided eyes. Even with a mind so young, so not mature.

It’s a grotesque farce of a fairytale, this world. Cosmos pleads them to play hero, but really, there’s nothing but themselves to save; nothing that lives on its own without her protection, without Sanctuary’s deceiving, lying radiance and imagery that promises safety.

It kinda freaks him out. Maybe more than the skies.

Time sacrifices itself as it always does, and he finally hears the steel again. Commanding, it snaps him out of all troubling thoughts again without trying. Two shadow-draped figures waltz into the center view of his window, one man, one woman. They whirl with savage finesse, and Sanctuary’s light slips onto their dark, agile bodies wherever it can. He’d forgotten that, yes, its trickery-laden shadows would lose their bright, deceiving disguises here and there; that their lies could go unheard on the warriors’ ears when they went beyond their reach.

It takes him a long, long time to see their exact traits, to realize who these two are. He never really bothered mimicking them, Kain and Lightning. Being near them kind of unsettled him time and time again even when he didn’t know precisely why. They always reminded him of dream-born fears once unseen to him.

_They’re sparring this late? Why?_

The question’s useless, and it doesn’t pass the borders of his mind. Just as quickly as it’s come to him, he forgets it when he watches Kain spin his spear into a quick diagonal guard, a part second before Lightning’s blade strikes it. She twists away, and her cape follows suit, an erratic zigzag of material that’s rather lackadaisical compared to the freaky blur of adrenaline she is.

 _She’s brutal,_ he thinks, and he remembers the sharp angles of her striking face, the perpetual all-things-negative look she always gives him. He allows himself the darn admission: though he’d never let it get out free on his expression and demeanor, she always scared the heebie-jeebies outta him. _Can’t think of a better name for her, that’s for sure._

Fearless at the hasty hands of death, she owns her name. Even when her life’s outta harm’s way, she fights like means to kill and dominate. In the frame of his window, she and Kain dance with lawless, true grace, defying orderly, false surroundings.

Both beautiful and chilling, it’s like watching some sort of forbidden dance. A ruthless waltz woven from unbidden dreams and nightmares, stitched in a night so seamless.

Lightning whirls into a sharp block as his spear pounds against the flat of her blade. The sound of grinding whetstone captures the quiet air, and their faces are very close, very still.

Her voice slices through the powerful noise. “Not bad, Highwind. But you’re still out of your league.”

They part away, stopping feet apart. Moon-kissed grass laps upon their dirty shins. Kain kneels to the ground, pressing a dragon-curved hand into soft flora. His head’s down, so all Bartz and Lightning can see are the taunting eyes of that kooky helm of his.

“Playing at haughtiness again? Grow up.” And then just like that, he takes to the skies — those scary as heck, freaky skies — and already rules them like the dragon he is.

 _Jump._ The main reason Bartz's never trained to mimic him. And while he knows the impending thought's utterly idiotic, he can't stop himself from thinking it. _What if it suddenly rains and he gets struck by lightning? Highwind's nuts._

Bartz has to lean his head out of the window to see them both clearly in their mighty grace. The way Lightning’s standing stock-still in place, it unnerves him a bunch, gets his stomach to coil up in tight, sure doubt. No _way_ would she switch her blade to its gun mode and shoot — _Holy_ **_crap,_ ** he suddenly finds himself thinking at the impossible. _Not gun mode but — !_

 _Zantetsuken,_ he thinks it’s called as it manifests in her steely grip, casting petals every which way in a riot of force. And although he’s not looking at Kain, who’s still residing in the upper atmosphere, he just knows that the poor dude’s already unsure of what to do next.

Bartz still can’t see Lightning’s face, but weirdly, again, he _just knows_ that she’s got a mean smirk, the way she’s gazing skyward at Kain. Just like how they seem to read each other so well, and love the snot out of one-upping each other with all the merciless surprises they’ve got right now…

 _Holy smokes, she_ **_wouldn’t_ ** _do that,_ he thinks, unable to clearly see the images that influence his thoughts. For as fierce and crude as she can be, she’s still a good guy, still an ally of his. She can’t do something lethal against one of them. She just can’t. Yet, it’s not long until the world proves him wrong again.

_Give me a dang break, world._

Zantetsuken’s already parted in two, and the swords wind up around her slender, now-airborne physique. Thunder roars from a brewing, implausible storm that’s both imperial and… and strangely nigh _beautiful,_ to him.

If Kain’s the king of the skies, Lightning’s the goddess of them. On a whole other level, Bartz believes. And as Lightning recaptures the whizzing, star-enhanced blades, stalwart lightning strikes bare their teeth at Kain.

Miraculously, though — like he’s some sort of cool prophet or whatever — he’s avoiding the strikes even though they’re leagues, _leagues_ faster than he is, than any human being is. His arms are at his sides and his legs are pressed together, and he looks like some sort of inanimate, limbless statue that’s somehow veering around in a hard descent.

No way. _Did he really memorize_ **_where_ ** _her strikes would show up? How the snick-snack is that possible?_

Maybe Kain really isn’t just some king of the skies. _Nah. More like a freaking god of them._

Even Bartz knows that they’re an equal, almost-too-perfect match for each other on the battlefield. God and goddess, an impenitent dragon and an obdurate harbinger of storms, they command the fearsome heavens with immovable fists.

The next few moments are hard to comprehend as Kain closes in on her from above, and a mess of air-flowing rose petals surrounds their brisk movements. Bartz can’t tell if the petals are from Lightning or from the bushes. Or both. But what’s clear-cut to him, _now,_ is their bodies. Both soaked in true shadow and dried in false light, it’s like they do _and_ don’t belong in the universe right now. Like they’re surreal sculptures from an ancient past, hard to both see and understand every detail they bear. It’s a nonsense thought that crosses his mind, but Bartz doesn’t care about how dumb it is, because strangely, _paradoxically,_ he thinks it’s really alluring, the sight those two make in the heavens.

Zantetsuken and his spear — _Gungir,_ he corrects — hit the ground in heaps of clinking steel. Kain’s scooped her up in his strong arms, whisking her away with him in a fast Jump, and for a reason beyond what Bartz can conjure, he knows Lightning let him do that. Maybe she’d conveniently decided to drop the tough act. Or she’d admitted that Kain had a better surprise up his sleeve. Bartz doesn’t know why, but he’s certain that everything about the moment is real and honest. Unfake and true, as he watches Lightning murmur something snide yet soft at Kain, who only laughs in reply.

Nothing about them is misleading. And as they reach the arc of their ascent, the climax, it’s like his mind pauses at the moment. The moon frames their sleek silhouettes, and its milky radiance slinks bit by bit on them, just enough so that he can see what fuses their bodies even further than before.

 _Kissing._ They’re kissing, and he imagines that it was unpredictable to either one of them when it happened, a surprise planned by the other. Or maybe they both planned it and did the same thing at the same time.

Was it even a surprise, then? Probably not, he supposes.

He’s still seeing this moment. It’s beautiful and true. Everything about the skies, now _beautiful and true…_

He feels a delicate smile curve his lips, feels his eyes soften at the sight. The skies aren’t so freaky and unnerving, not when compared to the falseness of this place. They’re full of some surprises, sure. But they’re not _all_ bad surprises. And the good ones make it well worth it to like ‘em, too.

 _You’re right, Vaan,_ he finds himself thinking. _They’re not so bad after all._


	6. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As isolation consumes her many cycles after the twelfth one, remorse curses her in many ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: No warnings for this one, to increase the emotional punch. You're going in blind if you decide to read it.

_VI - Alone_

She doesn’t know how many cycles it’s been. How many cycles it’s been since her allies from the twelfth cycle died for her — for her broken, _selfish_ ass — when she and they failed to seal the Rift. _How_ many cycles it’s been since she nearly became a Cie’th, but found enough faith to remain at least part-human. _How_ long it’s been since she learned to avoid purification to preserve her memories.

All these uncertainties are really questions that annoyingly persist in her mind. And she can’t force them away, or forget about them.

The Cie’th wing on her back, where her cape used to be, twitches as she limps onward through dry, craggy earth. It’s anorexic, and it draws an angular, skinny shadow on the ground that doesn’t look too different from all the dead trees amid her.

She can’t remember where she’s at. She doesn’t even know who’s still alive this cycle. All she really knows is that the manikins are adapting, finding meaning in their actions. They’d turned against Chaos’s pawns, and she’d seen it herself when she tried ambushing one of them before the manikins did the job for her.

But hey. At least she saw them run Exdeath through with several blades all in one cruel second. His screams were the perfect lullaby to her worn, uncertain ears, his black blood coursing down his split armor the perfect sight for her tired, unclear eyes. It’s probably the most cathartic display she’s seen in this brutal bitch of a war. She’d laugh at that memory if her body wasn’t aching all over like hell right now; if her frail as fuck lungs didn’t feel like they’d snap at the need for air after a single chuckle.

She sets down her holster as gently as she can, sits in a mess of exhausted, bleeding limbs, taking refuge behind a pathetic boulder. Jagged pebbles indent her bruised and sweaty thighs. It’s not much cover, but, well shit, it’s better than nothing.

Gazing upward, she wonders if the skies can answer her questions, quell her uncertainties. Remind her of why she exists now. Like the way Kain used to, even when back then, she didn’t really want answers.

Oh, how much of a damn idiot she was back then.

 _He really knew_ — the thought climbs the folds of her mind, sending pain down her chest she can’t tell is physical or mental — _how to give me those answers. Even though he sounded so damn complicated and stupid._

Forcing healing magic to scourge through her charred arms, Lightning can’t tell if her lips are curling up or down at the thought. If she’s bittersweet or regretting. And if she’d really like to go back to the past. To a world where chances weren’t finite, and when there was time to think about what she desired most.

And, maybe, back to a world where she could right her mistakes, could actually ask Kain all the questions that scoured her head back then…

Back to a world where she didn’t lead _them_ all to their deaths, and one where she wasn’t by herself, and one where there was still a visible chance she could get back home…

* * *

The manikins Lightning hacks through are impossibly expressive.

Some wear smiles; crooked, sorry excuses for tangible elation. Some frown. Those ones sob aloud, but Lightning sees no tears through the earth's dull dust that's coating her senses. Whatever. They can't cry anyway.

She stabs a crystalline blur-right in the chest. Kaleidoscopic particles burst through the sobbing copy of herself, leaking through its back. For a moment, it stares at her. She's been glaring it down, Blazefire Saber's metal ringing cleanly through her ears like it's her own blood. As a single breathing army herself, she doesn't care for the sad, pathetic excuse for a living thing.

She withdraws her blade from it, counters an incoming slash without glaring over her shoulder in advance. In a dance of lethal finesse, she sends three more flying away. She will not stop until these diseased monstrosities are dead. Never will she stop.

Mottles of grime ascend her fast limbs. Blazefire's radiant steel is scarred and accursed with manikin liquid or blood or whatever the hell it is. _Die. All of you._

 _This isn't pointless,_ she madly thinks. Someday, the manikins will go extinct. _Someday,_ she'll be free from this cycle of life and death those stupid gods cursed her with.

She's not sure if it's minutes or hours later when she's finished. She only knows of the multicolored liquid that's spread its wings among her flesh, her sweat-soaked tight face and her exposed stomach. She only knows to hear — to hear for the sounds of killing, of silence, of her thoughts. She only knows to take audible, strained breaths; to only go unsteady and fall to her battle-worn knees. Blazefire Saber descends into an atrocious heap of malnourished steel onto the ground. She's burning, inside and out.

Messy inhale. Short exhale. Inhale. Bitter snort. Half-assed smile of satisfaction.

"Stupid things," — sharp breath — "are finally dead."

Fake corpses are anything but few in quantity on the dull ground. The only thing that cuts through the silence, through the loneliness, is her persistent breaths. That, and the wretched weeping of a distorted voice. Another manikin. Lightning tenses and feels a cold fire well up in her parched throat and her empty stomach. That thing's sadness is something she _has_ to destroy, to wipe out.

So she stumbles upward like a toddler that's learned to walk. She’s standing like a broken doll; a sullen parody of a beautiful, perfect figure. Fragile and frail, she clutches Blazefire Saber in the tautest grip she can muster. Somehow, holding it now only makes her feel watched, preyed on; weaker.

The cloud-ridden sky groans for the plant-rotting land. Airstreams plunge through rose, sloppy hair as her Cie'th wing lurches. She's not sure if the wing’s grown more or if she's just that delirious. All that matters is that goddamned, inhumane, insufferable voice...

It's another copy of herself she wobbles toward. Collapsed upon its knees, it only looks at her with a heavy, worn countenance, crying louder now. Quartz-hued hands clutch its head as it looks down, shaking.

"Mom... Dad... Don't leave me..."

The words it throws out are useless, and yet, Lightning freezes. They are haunting, obscene. Stupidly impossible. She thinks she's being delirious again. Her blood's been boiling for ages, but the sight of the cape, the vest, the shoulder pad and the general remembrance of what she once wore makes her want to explode. It's not quite the accurate look that makes her feel that way, though.

 _Damn you._ **_Damn you..._ ** _You don’t know_ **_jackshit..._ **

Lightning growls and raises Blazefire Saber. Her back is hunched and she's caged in her prey. Her glare is brutally unrelenting, pupils embittered in hard determination and eyes unblinking.

"Fucking — " — she plunges the blade toward it — " _manikins!_ " It cuts cleanly through the bastard's back, unleashing sparks of crystal shards and dazzling liquid that slice through the bland, arid air for a half-second.

Everything seems still for a moment. Even the wind. Even her breathing.

A slave to time, the manikin falls. When it hits the ground face-first, the sound is pathetically quiet just like its own voice was.

Rather than retracting the blade, Lightning lets the lingering tiredness gnaw on her. She collapses onto the disgusting corpse on bleeding knees, heaves, and searches the sky for answers she suddenly wants. She simply stares at it with calculated precision and jittery pupils. It's a pointless thing to do, but she seethes and does it anyway.

 _Why? Just…_ **_why?_ ** _Why even fight?_

She has this same thought time and time again. The only way to shut it up for a good while for the sake of her sanity is to fight, ironically. And in a world like this, fighting will never end.

In her silence, something tangibly warm and hauntingly cold slips upon the curves of her perspired cheeks. Her wing arcs itself, shading her from the invisible gods in the sky she's been questioning with her prying eyes. Questioning the cycle; the meaning; the reason for it all. It's not until a few seconds later that she registers the wet stuff on her face. She doesn't remember when she's last shed tears, just like many things in Dissidia.

Limp, silent, and bitter, she lets the tears continue to fall and closes her eyes. She doesn’t dare sob, even when no one else is around to play witness. And the darkness of the unknown is easier to take in, too. False gods and lies are all that inhabit the damned skies now, after all.

She won’t see Kain in them ever again. The real one, anyway.

* * *

 At the eve of a day after innumerable days of war, Lightning’s lost and forlorn and desperate. Or really, maybe she’s been like that ever since the twelfth cycle ended.

And she’s finally found another manikin of him.

“Tell me,” she croaks at the thing she’s straddling atop of, and she hates how weak she sounds and feels. “What the hell’s the point of my existence?”

The Kain-thing’s empty eyes simply stare back at her, helpless to act against her. Helmetless, its cobalt-hued and textured hair feels scalpel-sharp around her wrists, just as its waist does around her quivering thighs. Her hard fingers are enclosed around its lustrous neck, and even though she can’t feel a glimmer of a pulse in that crystal skin, she knows that she’s cutting off whatever vital circulation manikins need to properly function.

“Answer me, asshole.” Keen impatience melds into a sharp rage, and yet, she feels her throat tighten.

It blinks. She seethes. And just when she’s about to crush its throat under her inhumanely strong grip, she watches it crane its neck so that it can gaze at the skies. She doesn’t follow its sight, and her glare nestles itself into about forty different shades of animosity.

It looks back at her, this time with an expression that’s taut with something yearning. Something sad; uneasy. Like Kain’s gazes would, they penetrate through her, read her eyes with distant purpose, distant meaning.

 _“Never have we bore a purpose worthy of others’ consideration,”_ it whispers in a distorted mimic of Kain’s voice, and the words carve big hollows into her heart, hastening the pulse. _“Not then; not now.”_

Lightning doesn’t know exactly why these words drive fresh wetness to the rims of her eyes. Or why they feel so true. At the same time she senses this, she watches multicolored liquid slip from the manikin’s own eyes, down the angular scarps of its glistening, Kain-perfect face.

Slowly, she uncoils her hands from its throat. It doesn’t retaliate, and between feelings of something bittersweet or regretting, she thinks that she already knew it wouldn’t.

She knows what its words mean. What the raw, evident manikin tears imply. Because just like Kain usually would respond to her, what it’s saying isn’t directly answering her, is somewhat subtle, and yet somehow blood-deep true…

Miraculously, she gets her tears to stay at the edges of her eyes this time. It doesn’t change the fact that she feels… hollow and lonely, now.

It’s funny, absurdly stupid, really. Because from the few memories she’s gotten back from her world, she’s seen herself on some beach, and from what she gathers of them, she was almost always by herself.

But she knows this is a different form of solitude. A regretful one. A stupid one she’d gotten herself into without meaning to. _Because_ she just always had to take control of every little thing, always rely on her honed rage to guide her, to get her to march onward toward the Rift…

She’s the reason they’re dead.

Now she won’t see Yuna’s soft smiles again, or hear another endearingly dumb comment from Laguna. She won’t ever get to try a taste of that roasted rat Vaan offered her back then. She won’t ever catch another waft of Tifa’s sweet-scented hair again.

And — _most importantly,_ the selfish part of her believes — she won’t get to feel Kain’s warm skin and cold armor around her again. _Real_ armor; _real_ skin.

If she’s truly lost and confused about everything else, then she knows for certain that this is true. That she’d really like to be around all of them again… _And that smartass Onion kid, and Firion with his rose, and all of them, really…_

A single, quiet sniffle. Slow inhale. Sloppy exhale. An inevitable frown and steady tears that dribble down her still face. And in the face of steely, unending solitude, she simply regrets.

“I’m sorry,” she tells the manikin like it’s really Kain, unable to control the emotion that thrives in her voice as her throat tightens. Shutting down thoughts of protest against what feels like weakness, she leans on the manikin and hugs it like nothing can pry her away from it. “I… _I didn’t mean to.”_

She knows it understands what she means because its despairing look doesn’t recede; because it caresses her with a sort of grace that feels all too familiar, even if it’s been cycles since she’s last felt it.

 _“I know,”_ it rasps back, and because she’s wanted something, anything like him, and she’s desperate as hell, she can’t get mad at it for being such a near-perfect imitation of him. _“I know.”_

As the resplendent evening molds itself into an inky night, she and it, part-Cie’th and manikin, remain united for a long time. There’s still one last thing that’s lingering at the tip of her tongue, though. And when she forces it out, she swallows a sniffle, feels the stark breeze carry away parts of her tears.

“Don’t leave me. Please…”


	7. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As most of her remaining warriors march toward the Rift, she herself seeks meaning in this war. So she observes two of them to find her answer.

_VII - Choices_

 When Cosmos watches the two of them at the Bahamut Isles, she does so in a form that is intangible and unnoticeable to human eyes, in a ghostly body that is separate from her real one. That one, of course, still resides at Sanctuary, and the Warrior of Light is her stone-still sentry there, as he almost always has been, ready to protect her from the manikins.

She is aware that her existence is enigmatic, and that her powers have their strange limits in her own twisted, fabricated life. Even though she should be a goddess, she has learned, for what could be the thousandth time, that this is simply a title. An ego-trip of an identity that unrightfully adorns her in a war so pointless, hollow of concrete purpose and meaning.

Dissidia destroys with wry truths and evil lies, and even though she tries to be the mere deity she should be, there are times where she thinks herself to be human.

Her own presence is wracked with falsehood. And though she does not know if it is sorrow or fear or even rage that anchors her at this, she does know that this notion, both in herself and this world, does not make for a future wrought with bliss or good endings.

Around Kain and Lightning’s standing figures, tranquility hushes the weeping shore with lullabies of gentle breezes. It caresses the chins of dry and skinny grass blades with dewy fingers. Lazy palm trees sway with its assistance, and their far-reaching leaves cast fat shadows on the damp sand.

The sun is blurring the horizon with an ardent starburst. The rays it summons meet either water or earth or sky. They spread their ornate wings and weave amber gleams together with the yawning sea and quiet shore. Omniscient, they offer bundles of heat wherever they flicker.

Cosmos has learned that watching her warriors can bring new perspectives and birth meaning to this fruitless war. Today, she found herself thinking of these two, the decisions they’d made to sway the war to their liking.

They may die soon along with the others. This she knows. And though she had not bid them good speed in her recent dejection, she now wishes she did. So she has taken to watching them, beyond their reach. She can at least try to remember them, so that she may mourn them alongside her guardian, if she has the time.

Only a few inches apart from Kain, Lightning’s hands are on her hips, her bruised chin up and dirt-speckled head held high. “Fucking hell,” she snaps at him, and though Cosmos is distant from them, she knows that Lightning’s glare is a ceaseless indictment. “What did _any_ of them do to you? Why didn’t you just tell us about the cycles? _Oh,_ right, because you had to be a hero. An idiotic, dumbfuck hero.”

Stripped of his armor for the evening, scars of malice are carved all over his soldierly torso, and his face is leaner than usual, she sees. Like he hasn't eaten in days. Kain emits a sigh that sounds flawlessly bored, though Cosmos suspects there is more than what he lets on. “We have gone over this, Lightning. It — ”

“Don’t give me more of that ‘it had to be done’ bullshit. Your plan was gonna screw us all over,” she replies, undeterred by the wind that ambushes them. It possesses the red fabric hanging over her shoulder, pulling it around her so it flows past her side, never dropping it back down to a vertical. “What the hell made that plan seem reasonable to you?”

With a renowned interest that her eyebrow-raising face gives away, Cosmos notices the sneer that yanks Kain’s parched lips taut. She wonders if it is precisely scorn or regret that frolics behind the expression. “I could ask you the same thing, truth be told. You’re guiding us to death’s doorstep, after all. Hypocrisy suits you rather well; do you not agree?”

Though a goddess should not tense at a moment so trivial, Cosmos does anyway. She expects to see Lightning ram a fist into his face, for their outlines to unite in the most brutal of ways. So when this does not happen, and she sees that all Lightning does is take a calculated step forward with cold, astute fury, she nearly believes she is witnessing something wholly untrue.

“That’s not what I’m talking about. _Listen._ Why the fuck did you hinge on a stupid decision? Why when there were other better opportunities? Other sensible choices available?”

As the waves of the shore occupy quiet beats, Cosmos recoils against her will, and something between fear and surprise festers in her stomach. She has learned to be wary of this domineering woman, this steadfast defier of fate, even when she is not physically nearby.

The tone that swathes itself around Kain’s words is controlled, strong. “What other choices? Time was of the essence and it still is. Did you really wish them to throw their lives away instead? Like we are right now?”

In growing quietness, both Cosmos and Kain await her sharp reply, but it never comes. And as she watches Lightning’s jaw clench with uncomfortable hesitance before she gazes down at the salted sand, Cosmos wonders if this woman indeed harbors doubt, or if it is something else. Possibly something more unpleasant.

When the triumph inscribed in Kain’s smirk feasts on this lack of response, Cosmos feels her next heartbeat burn. She had never thought him to ever possibly be, at certain moments, the controlling one and Lightning the quiet one.

It dawns on her that she never really understood them. _Any_ of them, perhaps save for the Warrior. And the feeling suffocates her, now always ever at the ready to haunt her whenever it pleases.

They shouldn't be here. She doesn't know her warriors, but she had pleaded with them to fight in her honor anyway.

“No,” Lightning finally says, voice thinning as she revisits his gaze, crossing her arms. There is something delicate in her eyes, and if Cosmos were nearer, she thinks she’d be able to decipher what it exactly is. “Hell if _we_ would want that, really. But I've got a question for you. Where the fuck would your plan go after this cycle? You would keep backstabbing us over and over, wouldn’t you? Until the manikins would kill us off by sheer numbers, huh?”

Brisk judgment pulses in her eyes, and this time it’s Kain’s turn to probe the ground for impossible answers, to avoid her glare. But Cosmos knows that he is too late and that without his helmet, it is all the more harder to commit this act. With resolute precision, Lightning is quick to glance the fickle secrets that flourish in his look. Secrets that Cosmos will never dare to seek out, let alone know.

When Kain speaks now, he sounds lower. Careful. “Perchance I would. Or I wouldn’t.”

“Give it up,” — the jerk in her tone forecloses further debate — “you would. No point in hiding it like the pussy you are.”

They are silent again for what Cosmos guesses to be seconds, perhaps minutes. In this unyielding silence, she thinks it is calmer and serene. There is no tension as they stand profiled in her view. And now, she is finally certain of the emotion that scourges her bloodstream, even if she cannot perfectly name it. It is something of an understanding, and soft sympathy, and gradual acceptance. She lowers her head, and the winding paths of grit below her seem abstract to even a goddess such as herself.

It reminds her of humanity, the sand. Of how confusing it can be, given its status; in an in-between state of existence, between death and immortality, corpse and godhood. But with eyes that aren’t naked, then perhaps there is something visible of a message or meaning engraved in their seemingly senseless swirls, something comprehensible…

Kain's words cut asunder her thoughts, and with a thin gasp, she re-sets her sight upon them. “Time does not favor us.”

“Damn straight,” Lightning replies, snorting a bitter laugh. “But it's always better to do something than nothing, at least.”

Kain chuckles, even though Cosmos takes note of the clench in his expression, the emotions that run across his face for a moment. “Perhaps. You tend to be too rash,” he responds, watching her uncross her arms. “Asserting dominance ad nauseam.”

“So? You went through with your shitty plan like some crazy murderer. After only talking about it to _him._ Don't act like you're any better."

Instinctively, Cosmos’s gaze flits away, back to the ground. She cannot escape this feeling of emptiness and strange comprehension no matter what.

Another silence. Seagulls take wing in a yawning sky. Time mends whatever wounds these two have reopened for what could be the hundredth time. Cosmos looks back at them when she feels it has been long enough.

“Anyway,” Lightning eventually huffs, turning on a heel. “This game of ours is getting old.”

When she takes her leave, Cosmos has never seen the pride in Kain recede this fast. Few footsteps have marked the beach by the time he's closed the gap between them Lightning made. New wind rakes her hair, and long curls depart from her shoulder, now free.

With the curiosity of a youth, Cosmos wonders why the smirks they make seem anything but ill-fueled. And why when Lightning turns around with a sigh, and molds into his embrace after giving him a long stare, it seems there's more than they let on. More unspoken secrets she will never get to know, even as she stalks them right now.

She can only understand them partially. And it feels wrong, makes her feel almost incomplete…

They share an unruly kiss that is stronger than the breeze. Her soiled arms wrap themselves around his nape, and they remind Cosmos of the robust coils of a snake. Every now and then, they part, and when they do, she can’t fully comprehend their words, their limitless meanings and bewildering nature.

With another nip of his lower lip, Lightning murmurs a response to something Kain had said. “Something you remembered from your world?”

“A quote,” he states, and the saliva that trails down his chin is resplendent in the dying daylight. “It goes, ‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference’.”

Lightning shakes her head. “You made prayers to some nonexistent god?”

“No,” he says, holding her hard enough that her skin welts and dents under his touch. “But it would be nice, wouldn't it? To be certain that your actions will always be for the better; to always accept what's done is done. Do you not agree?”

Cosmos realizes that this is a repetition of a previous question, but for the life of her, she can't quite grasp why this time, it appears to bring solace to Lightning. And why it makes herself feel so meaningless and hollow, so ironically clean and free of burden…

“Yeah,” she speaks in a quieter voice, and their faces loosen into more solemn-seeming expressions. “That'd sure as hell be nice.”

Their lips reunite, and it's not long until they're going onto the ground, becoming one with the sun-blessed sand. Their outlines continuously merge in the most adoring of ways, despite her previous predictions. A hasty kiss here and there. His sharp fingers prying away her overcoat while she pulls his breeches down. The various sounds of joining flesh. Soft, longing moans.

 _I'm sorry,_ she thinks without clear aim or intent. She feels her mouth part to send out impossible apologies, and tears that are impalpable to others glide down her face. To her, they feel frigid and aimless. Her wavering legs give out beneath her, and the pristine silk of her dress will never be claimed by the filth of the sand.

Between something understanding, something despairing, she finds new meaning from these two.

 _I should have aided my warriors. No, not_ **_my_ ** _warriors;_ **_these_ ** _people…_

Though her eyesight is bleary, the sand and the humans it reminds her of aren't as hard to read now.

She lightly smiles when she realizes she may not be so different from these concepts; that she may just be a mere human at heart.

It is sorrow that graces her chest, she realizes when she sees their kiss go more unkempt as Lightning claws his bruised chest with merciless, lacerated hands. And it is with this sorrow that she can make a choice she can’t quite yet define. One that may even erase the notion that she is entirely above these warriors.

One that will help her unravel more of her humanity — a _true_ meaning to her life.

When she makes her decision, she doesn't hesitate to accept that she will protect these people to the best of her ability next time. She knows that these two didn’t hesitate when they pursued their own goals in this once seemingly vain war.

_It is indeed better to attempt this than to sit idly by, after all…_


	8. Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even after her wisdom teeth are removed, she and he are still as stubborn as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU: It's an AU one; finally. Yippee! It's set in the real world, modern era.

_VIII - Teeth_

“Are you feeling well, Lightning?”

All he gets in response is a groan that sounds very _un-_ Lightning-like, followed by an incoherent jumble of part-words. Her normally piercing look is subdued (for now, he mentally notes), and without it, her face seems almost tender; humane.

“Perhaps I should consider fetching you more of that sedative,” he says, leaning forward in his chair, chin to palm. Now closer to her, the frail glower she sends him only makes him smirk. “With it, you can't run that obscene mouth of yours as effectively.”

“Fur-ck… you,” she blabbers, facing the ornate ring on her middle finger. Topped with a pair of silvery dragon wings, it glistens with the white light of the room. “Whyengagedagain?”

“Speak English.” He grins, his eyesight tracing the soft light that adorns her features. “I presume you meant, ‘Why are we even engaged again?’.”

“Shurtup.”

“I ought to check a dictionary. Last time I checked, ‘shurt’ was not an English word.”

“I'llbeat… theshitouttayou.”

“Not with a tongue so weak, my dear.”

It's then that Lightning re-fixes her gaze on him. A little soft, a little tired, it portrays none of her usual stubborn resolve. And when she’s about to reopen sealed lips, he notices her change her mind and simply look away from him.

Snorting, he narrowly resists the desire to gloat in her face. These next few days, he knows for certain, will be all but normal with her around.

* * *

Hours after the dentist appointment, Lightning’s sprawled on one of the pastel leathery couches inside her and Kain’s house. Worn eyelids get droopier by the second. With a weak blink, she looks out to nothing in particular. Drool slithers down a pale cheek, and pain she can’t decide is dull or acute throbs in her jaw.

Feeling saliva soak her silky pillow and wet her cheek, she groans. It’s annoying as hell, dealing with the aftermath of wisdom teeth removal. The irritating stitching at the back of her mouth she can’t stop feeling; the constant ache; the swelling of her once sharp, angular face; the all-encompassing numbness there; everything.

Though, she’s gotta allow herself this admission: the worst thing to deal with out of all those things is Kain’s neverending amusement at her state. He’s been smirkier than usual, and it pisses her off to no end.

And the fact that the air conditioner is on definitely doesn’t help soothe her state of mind.

Hugging herself, she’s already starting to feel the goosebumps swell beneath her hold. Normally she’d stomp over to the thermostat, shut the damn air conditioner off. But between her growing headache, the pain in her mouth, and the couch being her only source of warmth, she can’t will herself to get the hell up. She just can’t.

With no strength to lash out at something, her frustration manifests in the form of another groan.

_That jackass just had to turn the damn thing on._

Right on cue, she hears him approach her even though she can’t see him.

“Go away,” she spits, wincing as she feels more slobber wet her pink locks. “And turn the AC off too.”

“You’re freezing,” he responds, and the fact he’s ignored another request of hers (for probably the thousandth time) is enough to get her to turn his way. With lips getting number and number, it’s a bit harder for her to make a scowl.

And that’s when she sees the big, folded blanket he’s holding. It’s tempting to just get a sudden burst of adrenaline to snag it away from him, but the feeling never grips her. So she just stares at the cover like she’s some motherly lover of all the blankets in the known universe. Or something like that.

Kain gets all smirky, and now she wishes she could smack the stupid expression off of his face. “I see you’ve been developing the cheeks of a baby.”

“Shut up.” A part of her wants to ask for the blanket, but she keeps that request to herself.

“And that you’ve learned to say ‘shut up’ properly,” he says, leaning in closer. Her gaze still hasn’t left the blanket. “I took it out of the dryer. If you want it, all you have to do is ask.”

Feeling her eyes narrow at this, brief adrenaline wells up in her and forces her to slightly arise. Picking herself up on her elbows, her delicate glare hardens as she focuses it further on him.

“Give me that.”

“Ask.”

Sighing, she allows herself to roll her eyes in his presence. “No way in hell, not after all of your annoying teasing. So stop being a prick and give me the damn thing.”

 _“Ask,”_ he repeats.

“You wanna keep goading me, then fine. _Go away._ I don’t need the stupid blanket.” And with this, she lies back down, twists her sight away from him. She shivers against her will, clutching her arms tighter. His shadow still drapes her, and _everything_ about him’s getting on her last nerve. “I told you to go — ”

It happens before she can even blink. Silky warmth captures her and it feels too good for her to stay upset. Feeling the gooseflesh beneath her touch thin out, she’s quick to grab the covers and yank them closer to herself. That’s when she feels something heavier than her crash atop her and the covers. Kain.

“I’ll have you pay for your vice soon,” he tells her in a venomous drawl that grows into a softer, quieter voice. “You witch.”

He uncovers her head, close in her personal space. She feels the warmth of his breath dance onto her face, _onto_ her faint sneer that she’s just become aware of.

“Tch. As if,” she sends back, releasing the blanket to rub her ring. “Thanks for the blanket, by the way, jackass.”

With elegance befitting a man of his stature, one of his hands slides upon her fingers, searching, while the other runs through her hair. When he finds the hand with the ring, he captures it, brings it above the cover, and raises it.

“Hmph. It was nothing worthy of your appreciation.” He kisses her wrist and then drops her arm. Placing his hands to both of her sides, he lowers himself and presses moist lips to her forehead. Stone-still beneath his hold, she’s content to keep letting him do what he wants. “And here I thought your surgery would make you more compliant with me.”

Lightning snorts, caressing his jawline. “Never gonna happen, Highwind. Never gonna happen.”


	9. Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He desires many things, cherishes many things. They are like treasures to him. And he still isn't sure which of those things he truly deserves, and which ones he doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates: My hectic life schedule caught up with me, so recent updates have been taking longer than usual. My apologies. Been doing a lot of stuff lately. I hope this prompt somewhat makes up for that. :)
> 
> Ending: This one ends on a bit of a sad note. You've been warned, fellow Kairai readers.
> 
> Typos: Please tell me if you catch any errors. Catching errors without a beta reader is a pain in the butt and I actually caught a few typos upon rereading previously published prompts. I want to offer the best reading experience possible, but typos can be easy for me to miss. Much thanks in advance.

_IX - Treasures_

It’s been days since Lightning and Tifa took off to do recon in Cornelia Plains. And now Kain, one of the few warriors remaining at Order’s Sanctuary, can’t bring himself to wait any longer for them.

With Gungir in hand, he takes off. With a Jump that dares to challenge grueling heights, his gaze narrows. Eagle-eyed, it takes in the arid mountaintops and rough terrain, searching for any hint of either one of them.

 _We’ll be just fine, Kain,_ Lightning had told him before leaving, looking over her shoulder with cold eyes.

 _Clearly, that is not the case,_ he thinks, grunting as a sturdy breeze wallops him during his next Jump.

* * *

After hours upon hours of endless travel, Kain hears something male and loud. Something unhinged. Soaked in sweat and heaving without end, he allows his instincts to guide him to this cacophonous voice.

“I hate hate hate hate hate hate... hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate _hate you,_ **_Pink!”_ **

A stout blast of fire then manifests in the dry distance, emerging high above a bundle of numerous mountaintops. _Pink._ As the realization settles on his mind, he makes sure his next Jump has more force behind it. 

Easily going over the mountains, he looks downward, caught in the atmosphere's indifferent and limited hold. Fine flames are scattered amongst craggy earth and dead trees. He looks up. Floating high amid a dull sky is something contrastingly vibrant, almost eye-piercing.

And quite frankly, _somebody_ that he _was_ expecting.

_The spellcasting jester this time. How lovely._

He lands in a crouch and his gaze flits about to find Lightning. It’s then that fresh lightning strikes emerge from dark, ferocious clouds, amassing around the erratically moving harlequin. Like they’re the talons of a mighty beast, they aim to claw Kefka Palazzo, to tear him out of the cloudy, dark heavens. And like strong, defiant chaos, Kefka is quick to impossibly twirl around the strikes.

Again, Kefka’s voice pounds Kain’s ears. “You _bitch!_ Where the hell did ya go? Nobody beats me up and gets away from me without screaming in agony!”

Staying low, Kain sneers. It’s a good thing Lightning’s got Kefka’s attention. He’ll use this to his advantage.

Kefka scours the skies with disorderly, stunning grace. Despite his own certainty, Kain can't help but internally cringe at his impending thought. _Perhaps he prowls the skies better than I do._

With a firm head shake, he holds Gungir within a strong hand and raises it slightly over his shoulder, ridding himself of all wretched doubts and fears. And as Kefka stops prowling the skies for what Kain supposes to be a moment, Kain takes aim with unblinking eyes. This is very daring, very bold of him. And that feeling is what locks his resolve in place, what reaffirms the lingering insecurities he hates that he still has.

Kain hurls Gungir at him.

The accuracy should be right. The power, fervid. Yet, as it nears Kefka, Kain can feel his own sneer loosen. As if hearing his doubts, the universe laughs at him. The world, now against him. Kefka looks over his shoulder, eyeing the incoming spear with eyes that Kain swears are the raging infernos of hell itself.

Purple lips caked on white skin produce a smile filled with malice. Ivory hands arise, electricity bursting from gnarled, bony fingers. Out of thin air, a ball of ice emerges. Kefka flings it at him and it soon splits into several diamond-shaped darts. The projectiles throw off the aim of Kain’s spear, so Gungir continues going off into the vast distance, far off its mark, as Kain makes another Jump and lands behind a boulder for cover.

Just then, he hears a strained, deep, female voice — _Lightning_ — at his side. _“Highwind?_ Why the hell are you here?”

Because it’s second nature to him whenever she’s around him, he chuckles, and his smirk’s back, as if it never lost its pride. He turns to face her, and as always, her chilling eyes are the first feature on her face to capture his attention, followed by her trademark stern glare. Gunpowder is smeared over her taut expression. Grime, scattered around battered flesh in unpredictable patterns.

As he readies a response, he hears the icy projectiles stab themselves into the other side of the boulder. Time is running short for sure. “I’ve no time for your prattling. Where is Tifa — ”

“Watch out!” By the time she's exclaiming this and looking past their cover, he’s hearing the roar of an impending, suddenly-there storm.

As she makes a run away from the incoming lightning strikes, Kain backs away from the assault. Taking instinct’s advice and survival’s hand, he stays by her side. The numerous, ravenous sounds pounding their ears don't let up.

“Where's your spear?!”

“Not sure!”

Hearing her curse to herself, he feels her snatch his hand and yank him off to another form of cover. A smaller stone, just large enough for them to duck behind.

“We need to get the hell outta here, Highwind. We can’t fight him when he’s pissed. Not like this.”

Something in his chest goes numb from an ice-like feeling of realization. “We still have to find Tifa. I cannot fare well without my weapon. And quite frankly, I’d rather _never_ lose it.”

Lightning sighs, peeking over their cover. “Fine. But we need to find it. _Fast.”_

It’s then that their gazes linger upon each other for seconds on end. This is something they always do when they reach a verbal agreement. Many of their negotiations aren’t filled with talking at all. He deciphers her stare, the _true_ agreement. It’s stuffed with a desire for trust and has concern etched all over it.

In concession, he nods. She does the same thing. And because they’ve worked together for months, always reading one another’s intentions fast, in battle or not, it only takes them seconds to quietly formulate a plan.

With yet another Jump, Kain is quick to regain Kefka’s attention. For a moment that feels to be a decade, they are eye to eye. Just as Kefka’s hands begin to sizzle with more power, a clean bullet of pure electricity sends him careening through the airspace. Kain doesn’t need to look down to know that Lightning is already getting Kefka to refocus on her. As he reaches the climax of his ascent, he looks around for Gungir.

The land’s dark, and finding a weapon of a similar shade of it isn’t an easy feat. It’s really out of sheer luck that he’s able to see it in a patch of grass. He lands as close as he can, running like the wind that’s going against him. It’s so loud that he can’t tell what precisely he’s hearing. Rich spellcasting in the distance to his ears is nothing but merely powerful gales.

Gungir is the only relic of his strange, contradictory, beautifully ugly past. His past, oddly, gives him bliss in this foreign world. And anything that gives him the enigmatic form of bliss he always craves, like Gungir, is a true treasure to him.

As he grabs Gungir, memories yet to be fully deciphered enrich his mind. _A lone dragon’s blessing in a sea of his own treachery. It is far from a mere weapon, a valuable extension of his arm — his reach — and without it, he is not whole, not himself; not fit for redemption…_

With the reclaimed treasure back in hand, he turns back around, searching for Lightning. Right on cue, she’s racing on toward him, Kefka pursuing her in flight. And then, suddenly, there she and Kain are, running side by side.

“After we lose this asshat, I need to have a word with you,” Lightning huffs, hastening her pace.

He need not respond to register her response, trying his best to keep up with her.

* * *

Finally having lost Kefka, there they are now, resting in the dark guts of a moist cave, heaving on and on. 

And just as he predicted, she’s already rebuilding her broken walls, putting back up the tough facade again.

“I can handle myself. I’d be able to find Tifa alone.”

Kain snorts. “That does not matter now. We should begin searching for her soon — ”

“Listen, Kain. The only ones that weren’t supposed to leave Sanctuary the past few days were the _kids._ Onion, Vaan, _Zidane._ Ring a bell for you? I told you to stay there for a damn reason.”

There’s a sharp pang in his heart. He doesn’t like this feeling. It’s like something terrible that he’s shoved to the back of his mind, only for it to spring back to the front at the most unfortunate of times. “I’d rather we not risk losing another comrade. Chaos’s pawns can pick us off effectively, especially in smaller groups such as the one you were a part of.”

Stepping closer to her, he watches her fold her arms and turn her back to him. He can picture the usual scowl she loves to give him on a daily basis. “You say that, but I don’t buy it all, the way you’re saying it. There’s more,” — at this, she re-faces him, stepping toward him until they’re only centimeters apart, looking up at him — “and you’re going to tell me. Now. Spit it out. Leaving those kids with that goddamn helpless goddess and no one else…”

It’s utter sincerity she wants. Powerful sincerity. Her eyes, they’re hurt and distrustful and wary. Disappointment hits him in waves, pounds his will, darkens his faint hopes.

Inhaling, he lets the words go out. And that sensation, the one he got when Kefka retaliated against his spear throw, returns to curse him. Only it’s worse this time. 

“Lightning, I will make it short and simple for you. I… cherish you. I cherish you all. You all are like treasures to me, and I simply wish for you all to stay safe.”

Her glare narrows, sharpening. Kain was so foolish to adopt the narrow hope that the opposite would happen and that she would give him forgiveness; the special kind of bliss he desires so much...

“No, Kain,” she spits, stabbing him with a glare that’s far, _far_ worse than her trademark one. “I’m _all_ you cherish. Along with your spear. And anything else like me or your weapon that reminds you of your damn home. You see me as a treasure, huh? I’m not some sort of prize to be gained or kept via your weird version of heroism. _Don’t_ ever say that.”

With no sky to rely upon, the darkness of the cave nourishes the sinking, burning feeling in his stomach at her words. With no heavens to look upon and now captured by her eyesight, he can only keep looking at her. 

Sighing, Lightning turns away. “I don’t have any more time for this crap. We leave to find Tifa at sunset.”

As she perches herself on a jagged, rocky ledge, gazing away from him and out into an all-black abyss, Kain doesn’t move. Breathing feels like a much more laborious task now. And every single word of hers, every single second she spent on him, is so heavy. It all wears him out, and he feels so alone. So unloved, so unblissful…

There is a part of himself that knows that this is how he should feel. For every treacherous act he’d committed back in his homeworld, for desiring all the adoration Cecil had instead of him. The other says that he doesn’t deserve these things, that he deserves happiness and forgiveness.

He still isn’t sure which side he should fall back on every single time the notion is brought up to him.

One part of himself will see Rosa and Lightning and the unearned honor as the true treasures. The other will only see Gungir as such — something he knows he is fully meant to own. 

He knows that in his younger years, he’d shed tears over this unresolved conflict. But those years have trained him brutally. He knows that the least he can do to at least have a clear path toward honor and adoration is to have dignity and inspire respect. So he does not cry. 

Instead, he simply remains standing, looking up as he knows Lightning looks down. There is no sky to hear his questions, but he imagines there is.

_How much wrong have I done? How much have I done right? How much respect am I worthy of gaining?_

He will always ask, and the response will never be crystal-clear. He will always try his hardest to get the best results, and in the end, they will always be mixed.

It’s no different this time.


	10. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all her fearlessness and strength, tomorrows always tormented her. They always meant she'd lose more time and suffer through whatever misfortunes life was ready to throw her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/4th: I'm 1/4th of the way done with this series. Honestly, I thought I'd never make this much progress. Thanks to all my fellow commenters/reviewers/readers for your support. :)

_X - Tomorrow_

It's times like when Kain Highwind teases her in bed before sleep that Claire Farron usually questions why she had married him.

The answers he gives her every time those thoughts hit her always manage to make her go, _Oh,_ **_duh._ **

_This night,_ however, she’s not finding herself thinking that at all.

“Hands off,” she hisses, trying to twist away from the embrace he's captured her in. Refusing to open her eyes, she scowls. “Now.”

“Hmm,” Kain hums, faking deep thought. “Try freeing yourself if you value your freedom that much.” 

Claire swears she can hear herself growl in response. She won't deny that she loves every bit of his touch, his bare torso resting against the back of her silky blouse. But there are times — _Like fucking now,_ she thinks _—_ where the sensation is more annoying than pleasuring. Because she's got another day of work tomorrow and she needs her damn rest.

“I seldom get to see you these days,” he tells her in a tone that seems to want to sound fretful, apologetic, lonely, and pitiful all at once. But since he's Kain, she knows he won't let the emotion get out scot-free fully, even through his own voice. “Time is a curse. I simply want to value what time we have left to spend together. Don't you?”

It's this that gets her crinkly eyelids to shift upward, for blue eyes to blaze in impulsive fury. Why the hell would he ask her such a _dumbass_ question?

“Of course I do,” she asserts, and her voice nearly strains, far louder than his own. “But I'm also a cop, and I can't slack off on the job, you hear?”

If Kain takes offense to her manner of speaking, absolutely nothing in his reply exposes that. “You’re not working right now. There is no need to set such high expectations for yourself — ”

“No,” she sharply counters, shaking her head. “You don't get it. _You just don't get it.”_

Kain’s hold on her falters as he lightly sighs. “I’d say I get you better than anyone else.”

Beneath the sheets, Claire clenches a veiny fist. Memories flow like destructive tides in her mind, and they remind her of the impact of an epidemic. Ruthless and scornful, they lash against her in crashing waves as she dares to look back upon them. Life’s put her through to hell and back, and if she’s learned anything besides learning to grow up sooner and embrace responsibility, it’s that people _aren’t meant_ to look back on everything they’ve done or gone through. That memories are their kryptonite. And that if one dares to gaze upon them for too long, that they will suffer and regret and be drowned in either sorrow or rage. Or both.

She falls into the last category.

Her memories wrack her with innumerable images — the cruel images that she made herself with her own actions alone — and while they make her want to scream and punch something hard and solid, she also despises that she can’t put the damn thoughts in place. Unable to be controlled or restrained, they still flow freely in her mind, sardonic and defiant.

Many times, she’s nearly failed Serah. Had she not been luckier, death would’ve swiped away Claire’s last bit of her family so many times. The times Claire almost lost her sister were when she hadn’t been at the top of her game, hadn’t been strong and capable enough to keep her reliably safe. And later on, maybe even _tomorrow,_ such behaviors could still cost her her sister’s life.

“Look at me, Claire.”

Between the jumbled mess of emotions that’s swelling up within her and the ever-growing rage that feels yet to be directed at something, she’s not sure why she’s willing to tolerate his command. It feels like something her raw, messy instincts should be blamed for. Even so, she still obeys. She turns over on her other side while his arms don’t release her. Carved by acute, sporadic bits of moonlight and keen shadow, it’s as if everything about him is all-seeing, all-knowing.

Sharp, violet irises and pupils gaze upon her with wretched, perfect grace. And for now, she realizes, as her thumping heartbeat settles and growing anger deteriorates, it’s as if there’s no need to fear tomorrow or what’s to come in the unknown future. As if it’s like her sister’s not always in need of protection; as if it’s okay to let loose every now and then.

One of Kain’s arms moves so that an open palm rests on the back of her head, pulling her closer to his chest. In response, she slides her hands upon his torso, feeling stressed nerves relax.

She still doesn’t think, _Oh, duh._ So yes, this time, it’s an exception to what she usually thinks about why she married him. But it’s also one she knows she won’t regret experiencing.

Snorting and willing herself to speak, she makes do with the tight clench in her throat. What she says finally dispels the lingering quietness of understanding they instinctively share. A faint smirk plays onto her lips, nearly broken by the true and despondent-sounding words she says. “I’m sorry. There’s just… usually never enough time for me, Kain.”

She feels him nod in response. “I understand.”

His words are true. And as he presses a tender kiss to her forehead, her smirk loosens into a smile that she knows he can’t see.

Tomorrow, all this moment will be is some little fragment lost in their heapy mess of a past. It will inevitably fade away despite its daring significance in the present moment. Tomorrow and the days to come will cram her mind with more worries and fears. More police protocols and stress and desires to protect and destroy all the same.

But that will be _later,_ and it’s certainly not _now._ And _now,_ she knows that she can’t leave his desire to linger. A desire that’s messy and precious and enduring, boiling behind his persona. A desire that complements her own, completes them both.

For once, she’s got spare time to spend with him. And she’ll be damned if she doesn’t use it well. Fuck wasted sleep time, for now, anyway.

Pushing herself up so that she’s facing him directly, she wraps her arms around his waist. When they kiss, it goes sloppy and messy and as usual, she doesn’t give two shits about that.

_Maybe we've got enough time after all._


	11. Moving Forward - Part I of III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man that once lived in the shadow of his greatest friend, both of them heroes of Baron. A woman forced to make a pact with a demonic spirit and obey his will, separated from her endangered sister. When they meet on a fateful night, they move forward together as two enigmatic forces to be reckoned with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three parts (important): You might've noticed that this prompt is different from the past ten. It's not the typical single-word prompt and it has multiple parts instead of being a single, self-contained prompt. I decided to spice some things up for a bit, but that's not the sole reason why I'm doing this. This three-part story (which could technically be its own separate three-shot series) is excerpted from a novel-length Dissidia AU story I was working on a few months ago. I eventually stopped working on it and only got two chapters done, because my attention span is abysmal and I'm more of a short story writer than a novelist. Still, what I managed to get done was beastly in length, and what I executed was done well for a rough draft. Since I worked pretty hard on this unpublished thing and thought it was fit for public consumption, I decided to share it with you all here. There was definitely more to this project (an entire parallel plot about Terra and Vaan and more characters was included but cut out since this is a Kain/Lightning-centric series). The story was going to consist of an ensemble cast full of these characters. I figured that if I'd never get to publishing the entire novel-length thing, that I might as well show you guys bits and pieces of what could've been.
> 
> References: There's a fair number of references in this three-parter. Kudos to you if you can spot 'em. ;)
> 
> Only Kain: Just a fair heads-up, this part only features Kain. If you're dying to see some Lightning in action, then I'm sorry to say, but you'll have to wait until part 2. I promise her appearance in the next part will make up for her absence in this one. And that Kain's angst should be compelling enough to also make up for Lightning's nonexistence.
> 
> Setting explanation: Set in modernity, similar to something like the DC universe and the Marvel universe. Pure Superhero AU.

_XI - Moving Forward: Part I of III_

On a road that parallels a radiant shoreline, Kain Highwind sits on his motorcycle. His arms and legs are crossed, concealed by violet leather and dark sections of mechanized armor. Ropes of ash hair thrash against a keen face that is angled downward. Steady eyes trace the curves of grit that rest atop bleached-out asphalt. 

Right now, Kain is thinking of his past.

_The city of Baron is as vivid as ever in his mind, bearing skyscrapers that tear into an everlasting sky’s frothy clouds and innumerable stars. The howling of sirens is still so clear to him, the robberies and chases so vast and eternal, the searing adrenaline as vicious as ever. Sharp scents of oil and hot steam infested his nostrils on most of his pursuits._

But as strong as these recollections are, they fade away in the span of a second when he thinks of the people he left.

_Rosa Joanna Farrell’s verdant eyes flash with some sort of emptiness, loss or some other emotion he can’t decipher._

Kain recalls this well, even if he is aware that the memory, like all forms of remembrance, is painted with hyperbole. He wonders, then, why this paradoxically makes it harder for him to comprehend Rosa the day he departed with his head held high, his spear, Gungir, strapped to his back.

_She stands tall, chin up. The smile she makes is born from only a faint twist of her lips, soft and careful._

_“Good speed, dear Kain,” she whispers. Wind breaks her unbound hair into chaotic strands that cover many of her delicate features. And though he cannot see if his hunch is true because her lips are hidden by her flowing hair at his distance, Kain believes she is not smiling anymore._

Now, he can’t come close to grasping whatever emotion she felt at that brisk moment.

His next heartbeat burns when he recalls what comes next. 

_Cecil Harvey is busy scouting Baron, probably rounding up crooks or running his lance-like sword through cursing robbers, so he is not present. Kain imagines that the people of Baron praise the Dark Knight for whatever he does right now at this very moment because he has seen them cheer him on himself, how often they do._

_So Kain has left him a note for whenever he returns. Bitter and uneasy, he just couldn’t wait any longer…_

The memories become unchronological and messy right now. A mess of contradictions and half-thoughts; a maze of some ideals that he wishes he could withdraw and others he wants to be emphasized. 

 _“Because I am too_ **_weak_ ** _, Rosa,” he says with a firm gaze, and she only responds with a slow nod._

_Cecil and he; Dark Knight and Dragoon, Heroes of Baron. But this is not the reality Kain has come to know. And then Cecil will insist that he is wrong, and Rosa will offer them both treats to calm them down, to mend their ties. A cycle of believing this, to not, to restoring said belief starts anew. And finally, Kain has severed himself from this cycle._

Blinking, Kain raises his face upward. Seagulls take wing in a golden sky. He remembers anything no longer because he’s seen one too many ghosts. He decides, as harsh skepticism blooms across his him, to not tolerate any more haunting feelings or nostalgic smells and touches.

Brushing fingerless-gloved hands upon his Dragoon helm, he soon cradles it like it's the most valuable thing in the entire world. A part of himself wishes, again, to retreat to the past. _Yes;_ he would love to see Rosa's eyes lock with his own again, to feel the pristine curvature of her lips in any way, if possible.

He would cherish such a simple yet daring sensation if he could. But only Cecil could, he remembers. And so a flash of malice makes his joints seize up for a moment. He reels this feeling in slowly, hesitantly, makes sure no one is around to witness him because he feels like a book that’s been pried open at this very moment.

When he exhales, the breath is uneven and knitted with some form of yearning he does and does not understand at the same time. It beats in unison with an airstream that runs its gritty hands through his hair. And once more, Kain considers staying longer to reminiscence. The wind does not stop begging him to do so, and the beaded eyes of his helmet compel him to do so, so distinct and fresh from recent memories. 

It is an artifact of his older days, and it will forever remind him of the feelings that pulsed all too frequently through his boiling blood, through his goosebump-textured skin, through his fragmented mind, during his time with Cecil and Rosa.

He switches the motorcycle on with a push of a button, and _Bahamut's_ engine hums to life. There is something soothing to Kain about its calm rumble, something about its reverberations that stops his past from snatching him up again from the present. 

While _Bahamut_ warms up, Kain reaches into his leg pack, fishes out an elastic loop, and draws flying strings of hair into a solid grip. It's not long until the familiar touch of his helm smothers his scalp with warmth, darkening his upper eyesight with strong shadow.

He has set course for the town of Besaid, and he will not waste any more precious minutes and brisk seconds. So when _Bahamut_ is all revved up, he takes off like the salted currents of wind that go against him.

Finally in tune with the present, no longer a slave to the past, Kain Highwind moves forward.

* * *

The town of Besaid, Kain decides, is tranquil and blissful.

In Baron, vehicles speed atop dirt-encrusted asphalt. Here, roads bear vibrant cobblestones and fewer automobiles ride them. Unlike Baron’s towering, arrogant buildings that reign supreme over sky, sea, and land, Besaid’s are short and humble, equal to everything. The smell of sea and salt weaves in and out of his nostrils instead of petroleum and gasoline. And yet, despite these differences, the one that gets Kain the most is that Besaid thrives with bright colors and nature, while he remembers Baron to be duller with the dominance of urbanization.

That, and that instead of hearing the songs of soaring skylarks, it’s the chants of seagulls that grace his ears.

For a while, Kain simply rides. Bright and beautiful things coat his senses with bliss and almost make him _want_ to bring a ghost of a smile to his lips. _Almost._ When he takes a steep turn, the laughter of children enriches the warm air that blows against his body. Sunlight strikes _Bahamut’s_ windshield time and time again.

Eventually, he comes around a cafe, and it’s pastel-hued, flat-roofed and comprised of clean stone. Compared to the other nearby parking lots, this one’s is empty. Curiosity seizes him and draws him toward the somewhat vast area.

Nearing the structure, he reads the dirt-marked sign that hangs off the paneled front door.

  _It’s open._  

As he parks and sets out _Bahamut’s_ kickstand, Gungir jostles against his back and the buckle of the strap clicks and clacks when he unseats himself. 

When he opens the door, a bell chimes at a perfect high pitch. Lazy fans emit currents of cold wind while autumn floorboards creak under his ever-smooth steps. The sturdy scent of coffee wafts through his nose, and it eventually brings his gaze to the counter where a woman stands. Surrounded by brick walls, he walks tall and proud. 

The voice she finally speaks in is low, strong and female. “Need I get you anything?”

“No,” he simply responds, watching her as she leans against the lustrous countertop. “But I bear a few questions if you don’t mind.”

Pointed nails slide upon her jawline as she tilts her head. Her ebony, side-swept braid lolls off her shoulder, and the dark beads entwined within it sing in dissonance as it moves. “Ask away, Dragon Boy,” she replies, and the ruby eye that isn’t covered by her bangs narrows.

Kain sets his elbows on the surface and inclines so his chin rests on steepled fingers. “Do you know who you are speaking to,” — he spares a glance at the name tag that rests on her ornate apron — “Miss Lulu?”

“No,” she quickly declares, undeterred by his formality. “And _why_ are you wearing that? Are you _another_ traveling vigilante?”

Accusation blooms in the way she rolls her eyes, but this isn’t what exactly daunts him. He knows that most people out of Baron don’t really know him and that if they did, they’d usually scorn him, but then Cecil — flawless, handsome, powerful _Cecil_ — sparks in his mind, and for a split second, his form tautens and unreleased emotions nearly gain passage through it.

“Precisely. _So,”_ he finally replies, careful and deliberate, “do any fiends or evildoers scour this town? If so, where can I find them?”

Lulu sighs a tired sigh but concedes. “Well, recently, one was spotted around here, and _she’ll probably_ cause big issues if she’s not caught soon,” she responds, pausing to think. “But if you plan on going after her, I can’t guarantee you’ll survive if you _even_ manage to find her. You'll likely only find her through luck.”

One of Kain’s eyebrows skips up his forehead as he makes a small noise of engrossment. “Pray tell,” he begins, blinking, “who exactly she is.”

Lulu huffs, shakes her head. “No one knows what she clearly looks like, only that she resembles a woman. People suspect that she’s responsible for several massacres, in all sorts of different communities — cities, towns, suburbs — you name it. The causes of all these murders seem to usually be one of these three things: red lightning, slash wounds, or death by shooting.”

“Different communities, you say? Such as?”

“Off the top of my head? Thirty murders in Mysidia around several inns, all by red lightning, and a count over seventy from Tozas, to name a few.”

Kain’s eyes squint and renewed interest pounds in him. _Such a vile perpetrator. Though I’ve heard worse._

Drumming her free hand’s nails on the surface, Lulu exhales softly. “Some call her a demon. Others, an abomination.”

Kain nods and angles his head so he’s literally eye to eye with her. “Where was she last seen?”

Lulu blinks, all once judging angles of her face now gone. “Can’t say for certain, but witnesses here claim they saw her moving around the docks a few days ago. She hasn’t been seen around here since then. Probably already on the move, but you should watch your back.”

Pushing himself up, Kain straightens, controls the urging adrenaline that wants to flourish throughout him. “You’ve my gratitude, milady.”

Lulu clicks her tongue. “Good luck not dying.”

There is a brief silence that’s interrupted by the sounds of his footsteps. And as he opens the door and that pretty-sounding bell chimes, he remembers one more thing to ask. He does not look over his shoulder.

“What form of address does she go by?”

Lulu’s voice is a calm, darling, distant thing in the background. “Reports say that she calls herself ‘Lightning’.”

Kain spares her a long, timeful nod before he simply takes his leave.

 _So it’s not quite_ **_all_ ** _tranquil and blissful here, I see._


	12. Moving Forward - Part II of III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man that once lived in the shadow of his greatest friend, both of them heroes of Baron. A woman forced to make a pact with a demonic spirit and obey his will, separated from her endangered sister. When they meet on a fateful night, they move forward together as two enigmatic forces to be reckoned with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sudden hiatus: jirfejirjgirgj. What happened to me? Life and interests in different fandoms happened to me.
> 
> Updates: I'm mainly updating this because I feel bad for abruptly abandoning this project in the middle of a three-parter. The incomplete WIPs for part 2 and 3 were sitting around in my Google Docs drive for so long, and I eventually caved in and finished this thing up. I'm working on a Dissidia novel-length project that will take ages to finish, set to be released late December - mid-January, so this series will be receiving inconsistent updates from here on out. Curse my scatter-brained tendencies.
> 
> Length: Surprise, surprise, I can write long stuff! All three parts of this thing put together amount to a word count of 11K.

_XII - Moving Forward: Part II of III_

Whole battalions of stars march across obsidian heavens by the time Kain’s reached the next set of docks. Besaid is much bigger than he fancied it to be. But then he supposes that he does not mind that. While he was swathed in caring breezes and listening to _Bahamut’s_ sweltering engine for minutes on end, he _felt_ right at home, always _almost_ taking full wing, had he not been chained to gravity. So much so that parking his dear motorcycle (now miles afar from him) made him seem… not as he remembered himself to always be.

Ignoring the fringes of insistent nostalgia, he steels his limbs, watches the faraway ocean waves curl and tussle amongst themselves, and engages his senses in a heartbeat.  Tonight, only a few people dare step foot here — _Of course they would; most value their lives_ — and their babble is an incessant scratch that chides his ears. 

Due to the generous nature of the starlight, Kain observes, everyone is partially draped in ivory light. The night whispers the secrets that tomorrow hides from them all with its riddle-swarmed, alien-dialectal sky.

 _Second star to the right,_ Kain allows himself a placid smile at the thought, _and straight on ‘til morning._

This time, the moon is at home on the horizon, perched on an ocean so graceful. Its bloated body gives birth to ripples that plow upon the murky sea, giving life to never-ending tides of luminosity. And if this were any other day — or _rather, a_ **_normal_ ** _one,_ he corrects himself — then he would let the exhibit converse with his torrent of a mind, wish upon a falling star if he saw one. But this isn’t a normal day, and he is hardly a normal, renowned hero.

_Now then, depraved woman. Where do you persevere?_

Hearing him through sheer willpower, the heavens swell and bellow in protest, drawing aphotic clouds from atoms of nothingness in the blink of an eye. Craning his neck at the sight, Kain flexes out tense muscles, lets a faint simper snag his lips. _Just my luck._

Lightning — _crimson lightning_ — cleaves itself free from the clouds, hits very close — _too_ close — by the decks, sending salty waves into churning messes of splashes, and the people around him are already screeching. Faster than any other natural anomaly he has seen spring to life, rain barrels from its misty citadel, harsh and vociferous. Already grabbing the neck of Gungir, the pounds of numerous footsteps along with the occasional bumps that hit the edges of his body are nothing to him. Neither is the fresh wetness that consumes him, from either saltwater or rainwater.

In a newly-formed silence, he thinks it is just he that remains. But it hits him all too soon that, _no,_ there is another lingering soul.

A woman is right in front of him. And as much as his heart would like to believe it, his mind tells him that this is not the one he’s been hunting down. Nevertheless, he now knows: she _is_ here.

Back turned to him, she stands stock-still on bare feet. White hair is stuck around her bare shoulders, drenched. The red and black corset she wears, Kain knows, is short enough to expose much of her lower waist, just as it does most of her back. Pale thighs and curves twist along with the rest of her body as she faces him in a smooth movement.

The voice she speaks in is seductive and controlled. It suits her eerily well. _Too well,_ Kain thinks.

“It is time… the Void beckons all.”

The storm cries, lashing out with a claw of red lightning, and Kain is again reminded of the ruthless majesty of tempests. He seethes, braces himself for contact, but he realizes upon quickly reopening his eyes that it went for _her._ And if he had not grown as a witness and victim to the familiar senses that violence summons, then he would think it impossible that she has managed to stop the blow with an ephemeral barrier.

The smell of pure blaze from the magical contact sends his nostrils into a hot frenzy. Using his free arm to shield his eyes from the florid display, he narrowly makes out the silhouette of another woman, another _threat._

 **_There_ ** _you are._

It all occurs so, _so_ fast, this blasted clash between those entities. Kain barely catches the fine swings of dual blades, both in hearing and visibility. Graced with momentum, they lash against _suddenly-there,_ thin tentacles that bear the faces of sinful fiends. He thinks he hears the sound of a curse from low, feminine vocal cords.

A burst of rose petals manifests in the smudgy brawl, and Kain thinks he is hallucinating this until the shriek of brandishing swords captures his self-contained silence and shreds it to pieces.

“We shall all return to the Void… even those who dare resist it…”

The tone that Kain hears next is defiant, dangerously resolute.

“Go to _hell.”_

When the bearer of this response acts immediately after throwing out those words, Kain thinks time slows to a crawl as he sees her in all of her glory. Bathed in the darkness of the storm she commands and partial moonlight, she is anything _but_ a demon. With heavenly, curved blades at her sides, caught in a whitened grip, Kain believes she is the herald of _tomorrow_ , a fallen angel thrown from her perch of otherworldly constellations.

“Foolish child,” the other woman retorts, gold tentacles with the faces of fiends snaking around her curves as they swat the incoming slash aside. At first glance, Kain thinks them to be her mere cohorts, but then he looks closer and realizes that they stem from her _back,_ and the fat veins that pulse there, connecting human-seeming sinew to demonic blood, tell the tale of a forbidden creature. “You cannot slay us.”

The other woman — _Lightning,_ he reminds himself — simply joins blade and blade together, breathes a harsh breath, and twirls it with terrifyingly skillful finesse. Gears shift, mechanisms thrive, and before Kain knows it he’s staring at an ethereal firearm that has the same markings and fine steel as the swords.

“Who says I can’t _try?”_ Then she’s a blur of adrenaline again from where he stands, a fierce thing that cuts through the overseeing midnight. 

Blinking, Kain weighs his options. _An actual demon that seeks to ‘return’ us all to a place of nothingness, or a supposed demon that wants to prevent that?_

He makes the obvious choice, and not a second is wasted.

His lips curl into a bit of a smirk as he feels for the call of the skies, summons the assistance of unseen air to launch him skyward. Transcendental power surges in his suit. Every pulse, in him and it, is not wasted. And as he takes to the skies, the familiar feeling of fiery pressure coats his senses with ever-strengthening loudness and heat. It is so strong that the rain that pounds him leaves him unhinged.

Reaching the arc of his ascent, he twists around to face the storm of sparks and ricocheting projectiles of sheer sorcery below. Gungir is now a scalpel-sharp blade to him, ready to seize its prey. He pulls his arms to his sides, keeps his legs together like they’re a single limb, lets the hastening descent work its magic. Preparing himself for the blow, he holds Gungir in a grip that swells with sweat.

There are many things that strike his mind when the blow lands. The first, most scornful one is that it _did not_ carve the witch’s skin into a pulp of punctured flesh and muscle, nor did it score blood. The second is that the moment of triumph that endeared every fiber in him is now gone, and although the force of his attack keeps him midair and staring at the shield of squalid sorcery, he is losing willpower, bit by bit.

He cannot quite grasp whatever else it is that makes him feel incomplete, humiliated. The demon’s eyes narrow, sucking away his goodwill, and with a finger flick, she sends him flying away with brute force.

The world around him muddies as he tries to evoke the wind’s aid. Flailing limbs barely still themselves and he does not feel at home in the gales right now.

When he lands, he does so in a frail crouch. Gungir steadies at his heaving side, and the nails of his free hand scrape the wood with hollow scars. Out of something he can’t describe in one word — _Humiliation? Dishonor? Frailty?_ — he does not look up for a bit.

Beside him, he spots dull laces that dance in a weak breeze, stemming from combat boots, and traces them to see Lightning’s face, eagle-eyed and focused on the witch. Pink hair frames a sharp glower, wet and sleek.

Cutting through the rainfall like it’s nothing, the demon’s voice still has that strange _calmness_ to it. “So the resisters collude against us. How audacious.” 

Rising, Kain allows himself a sneer. “For now we do, foul wench.”

Next to him, he hears a small ‘tch’ and the brandishing of clean blades despite the shower that’s soaked the three of them and the docks. Already, the swords are no longer one firearm.

“We are not man or woman. We are the emissary of the Void, the Cloud of Darkness.”

 _They_ — because Kain registers the words in a split second — arise, no longer slaves to gravity. Hovering high, they look them down with a glare that reminds him of the unseen devils that prowl and dominate the dark. In their slick-black palms, red, bright orbs of power beat to existence.

Another flash of ruby lightning cuts through mystifying clouds, but the Cloud of Darkness gyrates around it. Like an all-seeing phenomenon, it is not knocked from its perch in the sky and seems to predict what will come next by simply _watching_ them, mocking.

Barely within his sight, he hears Lightning curse under a rigid breath as her casting arm lowers.

The Cloud of Darkness nears them with horrifying grace. With a swing of their arms that Kain thinks is nearly, inhumanly fast, even if a bit dazed by rain, forbidden sorcery charges for them. Forced into a sloppy flurry of dodges, he can see Lightning in the corner of his vision, barrel rolling one second and going into a seamless backflip the next.

Columns of narrowly-tamed magic rake the atmosphere, claw through his nose with evil heat, and they obstruct the path on the dock that leads back to land. Wasting no time, they advance, sawing through feeble wood, ready to annihilate them, and there is already so little space that he cannot _jump_ high over it — if he even _could._

 _“Shit,”_ Lightning spits, turning on a heel. He follows suit, and when they dive, Kain imagines they will fall into hell somehow, forever chained by their unforgiving pasts.

Haunting coldness strangles every nerve, chokes each tendon when he hits the water. Fighting through the dark sea’s embrace, he keeps a firm hold on his spear. If Lightning is nearby, he can’t glimpse her between battling for precious air and swaying his arms to keep from sinking.

As an ambassador of the skies, he is a fugitive to the ocean. He is _not_ good at swimming. Flight does not exist here, only restraint and suffering and — _I can_ **_barely_ ** _breathe…_

In the nick of time, he frees his head from the sea, spitting out the saltwater that dominated his mouth. By some miracle, his helm is still on his head, and he can make out Lightning’s water-glistened figure right by him.

Coiling strong arms around the pier’s supporting columns, he begins his ascent as she does, mimicking him. And as they climb, Kain wonders when the once clear picture became so smeared — why the one he was hunting down was now an ally.

The downpour has yet to cease, keeps hitting them with its uncaring droplets even though the two of them have already been claimed by liquid. They reach the dock simultaneously, both in half-crouches, and are cautious. They search for the creature with focused eyes, but it doesn’t take Kain long to realize that she no longer resides in the sky.

Realizing they are abandoned, he gazes at her just as she does him. Kain notices that impatience flickers in that tense stance of hers not long after.

Despite this, he lets himself soften, lets a cruel twist snatch half of his lips upward. “Tongue-bound, my dear?”

Lightning angles her face higher. Likely to make herself seem more ruthless, he reasons.

“Stay out of this,” she snaps. Even though there is mist everywhere, he can see her eyes well. Cold and unflinching, they are ice; her articulation, sharper than the blades at her sides. “I won’t warn you again.”

He lashes out with a crude leer. “Such haughtiness. Do you think I did not comprehend what that fiend said? I’ll not stand by while others are at the mercy of that thing.”

If this response bothers Lightning, he thinks he sees this in how her form tightens, how her eyes narrow in pure contempt. “Look, I don’t have time for this — ”

“Oh? But I certainly do,” — he takes long, daring strides toward her even as she bares live steel at him — _“Lightning.”_

Her only counter is to make a noise of disgust.

“Hmph. For a notorious outlaw, you are rather tame,” Kain says, floorboards creaking under slowing steps. 

 _“Enough,”_ she commands, and her eyes flash with a newfound passion. “I don’t have time for you.”

“Eager to hunt that monster down, aren’t you?” Stopping at the tip of her blade, he overshadows her, but she doesn’t move an inch. “Hear me out, obstinate hothead: I have a means of transportation that will save you _time._ You lack a vehicle, don’t you?”

At this, some of the sharpness in Lightning’s expression dissipates, but her eyes are still vicious. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“I can show you myself, _fool.”_

A brief silence ensnares them before she shakes her head. The swords flash with supernatural light as she flicks her wrists, and in an eruption of rose petals, they are gone. 

As she walks to him, he makes out the clench of one of her gloves, the sound of suffocating leather.

“Then hurry up, _slowass.”_

Kain withholds a snort, but a tight scowl shifts his face. “Selfish, _foul-mouthed — ”_

“Shut it. You don’t want that monster to screw us all over, do you? Then get your head out of your ass and _move.”_

At this, something in Kain snaps. It makes his face go rigid, wrought with restrained rage. Gathering the sullied bits of his dignity and pride, he moves his features, wriggles off as much of the anger as he can. Refocusing and reminding himself of everything — his temperament, his goals, his _desires_ — he only says a few words before commencing his sprint.

“Keep up, vile lady.”

* * *

_Nearly a bloody pulp of severed flesh and broken bones, Claire Farron can barely breathe._

_Every bone, gnarled and twisted in the wrongest directions possible. Each ache, absolute torture to inhale and exhale through. The ringing in the expansive hollow of her ears is all that she can perceive. Lying face-up, the rain-wet pavement of the alley is her sorry excuse for a cradle._

_She’s feeling sorrow. Unending, ruthless sorrow. It suffocates her like the blood that swishes in her tender, swollen throat; breaks her with the pain that her crumbling bones gave her before._

_She’d told Serah to leave her, as she began nearing her last breaths. To get to safety, as the police forces began to close in on them. And now uncertainty crushes her without any foreseeable end in sight._

_Her sister was believed to be a menace to society. The specific reasons why, Claire wasn’t sure._

_She wasn’t a good enough guardian, for her sister. By now, her sister’s probably dead, just like she’s about to be._

_Still, she’s truly not certain about that. And so she continues to let the uncertain sorrow gnaw on her._

_Her waist-long hair is a blood-dampened mess that frames her sleek, pitiful self. A reminder of the days she’d spent with Serah._

_The days when they’d played dress-up like the innocent kids they were. The months they’d spent together, coping with the loss of their parents. The beautiful and ugly years they’d survived through together._

_She smiles a broken, little smile at the thoughts, messily tries to breathe through the blood that floods her septum. And then there’s Claire’s long hair. Serah always begged her to never cut her hair. It reminded her of their mother..._

_Breaths dull. They feel useless, and they’re loud and desperate and painful._

_She’s going to die._

* * *

Having found the flight-bound Cloud of Darkness again after a lengthy search, Dragon Man (Lightning decided to call him this, too stubborn to ask for his name) had long since given chase. But between the strong rain, flooding streets, and random pedestrians getting in the way, Lightning finds it hard to believe they’ll catch up on the motorcycle.

Tightening her grip on the vehicle’s safety handles, she looks over his back. Since the engine’s so damn loud along with the heavy downpour, she yells at him. “If you get closer, I can strike it out of the sky! Hurry the hell up!”

Dragon Man takes a sharp left turn before replying. “I’m well aware of that, impatient wench!”

Scowling, Lightning watches the female-shaped menace blend in and out with the grueling sky. No matter how much they try to keep up with them, the thing only seems to get _further_ away from them with every ticking, damned second. And if Dragon Man goes any faster, he risks losing control of his ride and crashing it, which will result in them losing the fiend again. And… and they _can’t_ let that happen again because then she’ll have _wasted_ more time.

Serah’s innocent, young face flashes in her mind. Her laughter, a beautiful treasure that sounds like a sweet melody.

_I’m coming for you, Serah. I promise._

She won’t waste any more damn time. So she takes one of her hands off of a handle, straightens upward into a firm casting position. She’s very aware that it’s stupidly risky, but fuck, it’s well _worth it._

Quivering fingertips rake her branded chest. Ardent light seeps through the fabric as particles of violence collude amongst themselves in her hand. As if hearing the call of the goddess of storms, the sky groans, and radiant stars are smudged by clouds. Thunder growls.

The aim has to be nigh-flawless, she knows. She can’t screw it up.

With a shuddering inhale, she casts away.

And the lightning misses its mark by _inches_ if her vision is correct and rain isn’t too hazy to see that so accurately.

This won’t work. _So,_ she thinks, re-gripping the handle, _I’ll have to use my other trick._

But _first,_ she needs to get high enough in the sky to reach the monster. Something to get her the _momentum_ she needs to catch up… 

“Hey, Dragon Man, got any ways to get me _up there?_ I can knock it down another way!”

Some of his head turns her way so that she can see a sliver of a scowl forming on it. “Yes, but I need to stop somewhere to do it! And it’s _Dragoon, for your information!”_

Rage swells up within her. _“Hurry!”_

This time, he merely nods in reply. Pulling over to a parking space, he swiftly jumps off the ride. As Lightning gets off herself, she checks the sky for the Cloud of Darkness. Seeing its scantily-clad figure not too far away from them, she smirks. She’s only got one shot at this, and she will not fuck it up.

He crouches, motions for her wrap her arms around his neck. She’s not sure what the hell he’s about to do, but she’s not about to waste any more time on any doubts, so she obliges. Seconds later, they’re ascending into the heavens and the wind’s whipping her with such force that her ears feel like a maelstrom. 

 _He_ ** _jumped,_** she realizes. And as much as she wants to know how he was able to jump so high, that’s not her top priority. _No,_ she thinks, facing a building that’s right at the ideal height and good for momentum. _My top priority —_ she pulls herself up higher on him, uncoiling her arms from his neck — _is_ — and uses his shoulders as leverage, jumping toward the building’s roof and barely catching the ledge with a quick breath — _to catch this_ ** _asshole._**

Sparing a glance behind her, she sees that Dragoon’s reached the climax of his trajectory, falling back toward solid ground. Shaking her head and looking forward, she effortlessly swings herself onto the rooftop. _Looks like it’s just me now._

The Cloud of Darkness is just a way’s directly ahead of her. Huffing, Lightning races for the edge that’s facing the creature’s direction. _Blades,_ **_now._ ** Her inhuman body responds to the command, and the areas around her hands flash with bright magic. Zantetsuken, split in two, manifests in her sweaty hands. Quickly, she rejoins the blades into one whole weapon and twirls it around until she triggers its transforming mechanism. By the time it’s in its gun form, she’s nearing the edge, using her free hand to snap her fingers.

As lightning encages her frame, she’s free from gravity’s hold. And when she reaches the ledge, she makes sure to push herself off from it with the most brutal force she can muster while firing an electrical bullet in the opposite direction. The momentum of the recoil coupled with the momentum that comes with the burst of her gravity-defying ability is all she needs to catch up to the damned creature.

 _You_ — she catches up to them — _won’t_ — and rams her already-transforming gun into its head, wrapping an arm around its neck — _get away this time._ Before she can jam her blade fully into the creature’s skull, its tentacles wind around her sword arm and yank it in the opposite direction, preventing her from doing that. And so they continue hurtling through the atmosphere, inhumanly fast. With inconsistent, interrupted methods of flight, they eventually begin descending in a tangle of limbs and grunts, now distant from Besaid itself and above a stranded sea of sand. Noticing this, Lightning positions herself so that she won’t directly collide with the ground.

It all happens at once. While she’s able to position the Cloud of Darkness below her so that they hit the ground first and foremost, that doesn’t completely keep Lightning from being affected by the impact. She goes careening several feet from the creature, eventually landing in a roll she can’t control. Sand invades every orifice as she thinks she hears herself cry in unbridled pain. She’s lost hold of Zantetsuken, and grit infests her eyes, reddening them. At the end of it all, she’s left in a barely breathing mess of limbs, eyes shut.

The thing’s sultry voice, while gloating, is wrought with some pain. Just _some._ Along with it, sporadic-sounding footsteps near her. “Foolish human. You thought you could slay us?”

The footsteps become more consistent. A shadow drapes her figure as she gazes upon the scarred, bruised creature with enraged eyes. Stumbling upward despite how close the Cloud of Darkness is, Lightning stands as tall as she can. Faraway ocean waves chant in the distance while rain soaks her vision, a mad song to her frenzied mind.

“If you think I’m just some human, you got another thing coming,” she spits, re-summoning her blades in her bleeding grip. Feeling a dull ache throb all over her sore muscles, she uses a wrist to wipe away some blood from a busted lip. “And you’ve wasted enough of my time, _asshole.”_

Lightning makes the first strike, clashing against a defensive barrier of crimson magic. She can’t tell how many times she misses and hits the damn thing, whether she just hits a barrier or fake flesh, whether she’s hallucinating through all the raindrops. All that matters to her is that this fucking demon will _pay_ for stealing away precious minutes and seconds from her cause. 

There are times, like now, where she’d actually rather be human. Younger. Normal, instead of a murderer driven by sinful desires that aren’t even her own. And as she makes a messy overhead strike at the fiend before spinning around an ardent spell, Lightning can’t feel the rage or adrenaline whisk her away to a state of mighty power and determination, as it usually does. Instead, she just feels empty. Like something only meant to be used, a purposeless being. A marionette with strings that she can’t hope to control.

Lightning loses her flow and pace in the dance because of these thoughts. Like a disease, they spread amongst her mind, domineering every motion and decision she’s making in the heat of the moment. Parries become a tad too bold. The next feint she makes is too transparent. So a clean blast of unrestrained sorcery smashes into her gut, sends her flying away and impacting with unruly terra firma. They make her want to tear someone’s throat out, these stupid thoughts, because she doesn’t know why she’s having them _now,_ of all times.

Rolling so she’s face-up, she cradles her damaged abdomen, where freshly torn fabric frames a not-too-severe burn. If she were human, it’d have been lethal, probably blown a clean hole right through her. 

 _As much as it’d be nice to go back to the past, where all was well,_ she thinks, rolling around another magic blast, inhaling squalid dust from the attack and feeling it singe her eyes, _all I can do is move the fuck forward, and do what I_ **_can_ ** _do._

Finding her feet, she makes absolutely sure that her stance is nigh-perfect, that the breath she inhales is full of freshness, and not the old, dirty dust that she breathed for far too long. And while sharp pain pulses around her abdomen when she lunges for the creature, straining her movements, she forces her body to endure it. The pain’s good and reassuring. It pummels down whatever doubts or fears still linger within her. 

A flawless overhead that severs one of the Cloud of Darkness’s tentacles leaves Lightning smirking. A great feint allows her to kick the Cloud of Darkness feet afar. But just when Lightning’s about to resume her assault, charging head-on toward it as it tries to get back up, she sees someone descend from the still-dark skies, spear positioned and ready to impale the demon. _Dragoon._ She knows he won’t be able to properly do that without her help, so she refaces the Cloud of Darkness, ready to assist.

A tentacle aims to bite flesh off of her, but she’s so agile that it’s not a threat. She makes sure to stay close, right in the Cloud of Darkness’s personal space so it has no time to cast anything that will force her to distance herself from it. The Cloud of Darkness’s greatest strength is its magic, and when it can’t cast it, it’s helpless.

Despite Lightning’s successful dodges and strikes that carve the fiend’s physique into a mess of bloody patterns, its own face, minus some gore and dirt that’s smeared upon it, is untamed by her raw power. They’re not even _trying anymore;_ to fight properly, to dodge, to attack back. They take every blow they can possibly get, only being forced backward as a result by the innumerable slashes. Lightning doesn’t care that she’s hitting the thing more than she needs to. She wants nothing more than to scrawl her own unforgiving patterns in this sinful thing’s skin with her swords — swords that met flesh and bone of many living things to the point of insanity.

Even though they’ve given up, the damn thing dares to talk to her, and somehow that’s all it takes for Lightning to stop slashing away at them and listen. “You _were_ quite right. You’re anything _but_ human. You’d be a fitting emissary for the void. A beautiful, brutal demon of death you’d make indeed, young fiend…”

Rage sets Lightning gaze alight. Was this thing fucking _joking?_

“Wrong, again,” she tells them without the slightest bit of hesitation, feeling their own blood course down her remorseless face and tattered clothes — she’d been so into cutting this piece of shit up that she never realized the mess she made — and she hooks one of Zantetsuken’s curved edges around their midsection, feeling it cut into supple skin. “I’ll always have some humanity in me, no matter what the hell I go through.”

“You lie,” they hiss. “You are a murderous fiend, no matter what intentions you bear. What humanity you retain will soon be gone.”

Lightning doesn’t have time to come up with a response, and even if she did, she wouldn’t know what to say this time. Her jaw clenches and anger taints her gaze.

Their calm expression never changes, even as Dragoon stabs them from above. Even as Lightning severs what isn’t impaled by him in half, cutting through demonic bones and cursed flesh. As they fall, he jumps off of it. Almost timeless, their face would forever remain this way, if it didn't begin to melt into a black liquid, tarnishing pure, rain-soaked sand. Pale skin molds into a sickly black. White hair sinks into the ooze that she and Kain withdraw their weapons from.

Soon, impossibly, the substance evaporates, as if it never existed. And when it does, she and Dragoon finally look at one another, left alone in a deserted beach.

* * *

There are many things that dwell on Kain’s mind when he considers everything he knows about Lightning at this point.

A supposed murderer with heartless intentions. And while she certainly looks the part, soaked in radiant blood, framed by sleek rain, and merciless-looking with steely eyes, there’s something in the way she looks at him that tells him there’s more than what meets the eye. Her eyes, they’re reminding him of Rosa’s sad ones, the gaze she’d given him before he left Baron. Lightning’s are enriched with a sharpness and aching that is anything but false, everything that is _true._

Lightning sends her weapons away in a burst of light and rose petals. 

“Take me back to the motorcycle,” she commands, striding closer to him, hands clenching. “I’ve still got some unfinished business to take care of.”

Kain shoots her an incredulous stare. “I believe an expression of gratitude is now in order, you wicked louse.”

He hears her click her tongue against the roof of her mouth. And then she lets out a lengthy, exemplary sigh. _“Fine._ Thanks for the ride and boost. Also, _fuck you.”_

“Tsk, tsk,” he scolds, raising a hand to look upon his glistening, curved nails with mild, refined interest. “No matter how wicked one is, a lady should never run a mouth so foul. Phrase your thanks more politely.”

“Look,” — for emphasis, she puts her hands on her hips and cocks a mean eyebrow upward — “You helped. I gave you my thanks. I’ve still got unfinished business to take care of. I need to get moving. Now take me back to your motorcycle, asshole.”

Kain takes a steady breath, weighs his options. Take orders from a murderer or bring her to justice?

It’s not a hard decision. But he’ll play the part and lie, for now.

“Fine, Your Highness. But first, you need to cleanse yourself.” At this, he gestures to her bloodstained self, and she scoffs in reply. “Or perhaps not. If you turn yourself into the police instead, I’d be most pleased and happy for all my lifetime.”

For good measure, Lightning gives him a hard shove before striding toward the ocean to rinse herself off, since the rain’s not doing the job well enough. And now that she’s got her back turned toward him, Kain doesn’t hesitate in taking his stance, Gungir angled to an aim where he can draw the most blood out of her.

 _Of course murderous scum like you would be ungrateful,_ he muses, scowl growing. _You don’t deserve to live._

But then Cecil’s face flashes in his head, and suddenly he’s thinking about what _he_ would do. 

Cecil’s voice is clear in his mind. _Give anyone a chance, Kain. No matter how ruthless or uncaring they seem to be at first sight._

He only hesitates for a moment. Then he makes his decision due to some underlying boiling emotion. Due to how domineering Rosa's sad, hurting eyes and Lightning's sharp ones and Cecil's words are in his mind...

 _I will only give her_ **_one_ ** _chance. On_ **_my_ ** _terms._

Kain throws Gungir.

Lightning notices too late. With only a fraction of a second to dodge and still heavily wounded from before, she gets knocked to the ground, the spear cutting deep into one of her legs. She lets out a shrill scream that sounds nothing like her normally composed self. Frenzied, she resummons her blades, unable to get back up. By the time she's got them in firearm mode, Kain's making his way toward her, slowly. He stalks his way around her panicked shots with ease, drinks in every tremble and jolt she makes in response. When she raises a hand to call the skies to aid her, he whips out an obsidian dagger, kneels, and presses it to her throbbing throat. 

"You haven't the will to kill me," he drawls, tracing a thin line on her bruised neck with the dagger. "Your aim was rather sloppy, for a powerful foe such as yourself. Perhaps it is because you're fatigued, but I suspect there is more to it than that, given your inhuman nature. Traveling as a criminal must've taken its toll on you, hm? Unable to risk exposing yourself to the public at every turn to keep a low profile… Tell me, vile fool, after you've slaughtered countless innocents, what makes you believe I'll take you wherever you want to go?"

Despite her predicament, Lightning no longer trembles. Her expression this whole time has been hard with keen rage.

"None of your business," she spits.

"You don't seem to grasp the position you're in," Kain says, unrelenting. "You're wounded and covered in blood. I can turn you in myself, and even if I don't, it will only be a matter of time until you're found and exposed. Like this, you will have no access to faster transportation. But if you explain why you're doing what you're doing, I may reconsider turning you in. Now, explain yourself. How did you track down that fiend we slew? Why do you kill without end?"

Lightning sends out a “tch”, her face twisting with a wave of decisions, though the anger still dominates it overall. Her casting arm descends. Kain smirks.

"Call me crazy or whatever, but I'm not bullshitting you: I have a _demon_ inside my head."


	13. Moving Forward - Part III of III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man that once lived in the shadow of his greatest friend, both of them heroes of Baron. A woman forced to make a pact with a demonic spirit and obey his will, separated from her endangered sister. When they meet on a fateful night, they move forward together as two enigmatic forces to be reckoned with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ethics: I love playing around with how effed up these two can be. :)
> 
> Ending: You may notice that the ending of this three-parter feels less like an ending to a story and more like a beginning to something new. That's what was bound to happen, considering this was originally going to be a part of a novel-length project I never published.

_XIII - Moving Forward: Part III of III_

_The voice that taints her mind, echoes throughout her throbbing head, is pure soullessness. It somehow silences the ringing in her ears, and the shadow of something human-like covers her dying body._

**_You drown in anguish, dying one._ **

_Though her vision is soaked by the ever-encroaching darkness of death, she can see this thing in all of its mighty glory. A phantom-looking menace with callous eyes of gold and red-tipped talons. Laconically, it floats, transparent yet tangible-seeming, never blinking as it stares her down with undeniable interest._

_If she fears this thing, she doesn’t show it. She only glowers with what little strength she has._

**_Perhaps I must properly introduce myself._ **

_The phantom floats lower, cupping her chin with strong, sharp claws. She’s forced to look into cat-like pupils, into a soul that thrives with unruly intent._

**_I am Pulse, a wandering demonic spirit. I crave a new vessel, and I sense that you have the potential to be a fine one. Allow me to mend your wounds._ **

_It doesn’t take Claire long to see that the male-sounding thing isn’t bullshitting her. It melts into a dark substance that looks like ink, seeping into every orifice and opening of hers possible. The sounds of ooze disgust her to no end, and the sensation of it all feels like snakes are slithering within her body, curling and coiling around every bone and muscle..._

**_I will possess you. You will be all mine. Your mind, your body… all mine._ **

_Breathing is simple now, and her bones and muscles don’t ache when she’s miraculously able to move them now. She sits upright, left alone in a sully alley._

_She won’t let_ **_anyone_ ** _take her damn autonomy from her, even if they’re someone that saved her life. Especially some freaky ass demon._

_Never._

_Pulse sews threads of control into her, but Claire does her damn hardest to clip every single one. "Fuck off…"_

_Pulse cackles, reaffirms his control on her with little to no issue. Claire can't move a muscle, and though she can speak, she can hear parts of his baritone voice meld with her higher-pitched one. "I said_ **_fuck off…"_ **

**_Why should I? The moment I leave your body, the influence of my presence will drain. You will die the moment I do. And it would be a shame to let a brilliant light such as yours to flicker out so soon._ **

_Claire can barely release a curse under a shuddering breath as his command on her tightens with every second. Her voice is now exactly like his, and she wants to purge every fiber of his being from this world._

_She's running out of time._

**_You are a rather strong human, are you not? These memories of yours are so preciously depressing, so wonderfully demoralizing. That poor sister of yours, all left on her own… And yet at this, you only feel endless rage._ **

_Pulse's control on her relents enough so that she can utter more than a curse or two with a voice that progressively sounds closer and closer to her own. "Stay the fuck away from my memories, bastard!"_

**_Nevermind those insignificant things. I have a pact in mind for you, human. It has been ages since I have taken up a vessel with the potential to be so… inhumane. It is so much more delightful to wield such a puppet with thoughts of their own. Under the conditions of this pact, I will allow you to maintain full authority over yourself under one condition: that you never allow yourself to revel in any weak, pathetic emotions. Rage is the only one I will allow. I wish to see how long you can last. You will have to kill and bleed until you breathe your last under my command, Claire Farron. You will gain abilities no other man can dream to possess. In time, perhaps, you may reclaim what you've lost. But my desires will always come first and foremost, for the rest of your life. Do you, Claire Farron, agree to these conditions?_ **

_Claire wishes she had any semblance of a reason to say no, but there's none. There's a slim chance she can find her sister if she's not dead, and if she lets this thing take control of her, it's over. She'll have lived a wasted life. And even if she didn't have this asshole inside her, she'd be a dying mess all over again._

_Standing tall, she decides to throw what bits of herself she doesn't need away, to the back of her battered mind, this time for good. The loneliness, the pain, the fear. Even her name._

_She inhales, seethes. Exhales, takes Serah's birthday gift from her pocket — a switchblade knife — and puts the blade to her hair, right around her nape. Right when she cuts it all off, a lightning strike careens out from the musty clouds. The haircut turns out a little uneven, one half of it shorter and sharp while the other half is longer, lying against the front of her left shoulder, wavy and radiant._

_"Yeah," Lightning says, tone raw with rage. "I can get behind that."_

* * *

_Before she began her unofficial career of being a murderer, Lightning already knew how to make quick kills._

_Don’t waste time. Stay sharp. Focus on the targets that are the most threatening. If one hesitates, finish them off. Be utilitarian with your skills. Don't shed unnecessary blood. Weaklings will die, plain and simple. They always die first, before the strong. And they’ll slow her down too — if she bothers trying to help them._

_Even in her days as a police officer, she knew the most crucial law of Mother Nature: the frail die more, the formidable live longer._

_Killing is a chore. One she both did and didn’t sign up for, depending on wherever life took her. It doesn’t really make sense, though, her life, when she looks back on it. Like a crumpled piece of paper, the memories are sharp yet disheveled, unbelievable but still, somehow, unbearably true. One moment, she hates the shit out of them. The next, it’s like they’re the only things she has left. Even then, that feeling still nourishes the inevitable anger that’s been a part of her for however long she can remember._

_She’ll let this slide without a doubt, though: she likes the sound of a killing edge, on targets, on practice dummies, on humans, on monsters — on anything. Killing living things because you have no other choice? Not something to be proud of. But the feeling of a perfect feint that tricks them good? A well-timed kick to the shin? Yes. It feels_ _right._

_Besieged by the brightness of a dying sun, the road beneath her is sanded-over while the coast’s waves repeat their motions, but these things are insignificant to her._

_She's in a deadly waltz right now, and not a single feint or attack is wasted. Adrenaline scourges her, limb through torso through head, and she loves it._

_With a snap of her fingers, rose-hued lightning swaddles her slender build. Every smell, every hint of gunpowder and oxidized metal has long since seeped into every orifice of hers. Electricity, cold and nimble, also runs through them. A loud sizzle courses down her ears as her spine tingles from the might of her power. The resonant gunshots around her are empowering. Gravity is a forgotten phenomenon now, an antique of the past._

_Even though her gloved fingers don’t hold onto the familiar grooves of a hilt or a gun grip, she knows that her fists or a good kick will do the trick. No need to spill more blood, not yet, anyway. Kicking from her haunches, she now rides the air, and the sensation is as familiar to her as running is. She rams a solid kick into an assailant’s stubbly face. Electricity fireworks around her boots on impact, color some of their creases red for a moment, and the echo of that satisfying crunch makes her feel whole, gets her all smirky. The sound of his weaponry, whatever it was, hits the asphalt in a mess of ringing aluminum along with him. It reminds her of her breath. Steady; reliable; real. Unruly and made of everything memories aren’t made of, it makes her feel alive and solid._

_Bullets bristle by her, but they’re nothing. Readying herself to cast while flying around the shots as fast as her namesake, she feels for the magic, drags the cursed and useful stuff to her fingertips, and the fabric of her beige, grimy camisole rustles in reply to the newborn wave of the power. The power nips away at her nerves. Like little, thousands of knives stabbing her insides._

_Electricity cackles in the atmosphere now. The grunts of her assailants are marred with confusion. She glances up. Without blinking once, she notices the lightning capture them in cages of mean sparks, the sky now crowded with bleak clouds. And when she does blink, all that she sees afterward are blackened carcasses. No more yelling or gunfire._

_Sighing, Lightning descends. The power around her fizzles out. She now serves gravity again._

_Landing on her feet, she surveys the stupid camp these guys built out in the middle of the vacant shore. No covers or obstructions to protect them as a precaution. She had attacked them first, and they decided to fight back. Or at least tried to._

_Their makeshift tent's a mess. Unorganized piles of collections and crappy findings litter a tiny table. Sheets are covered in nasty flakes and specks of sand. Still, there could be something practical or useful around._

_Food? All she gets from the table's heaps is a dripping fishbone. Gross. She tosses it away and waves the watery stuff off her glove. Water? There are bottles, but they're glassy and filled with liquor and beer and other crap like that. Yuck. And shelter? This isn't a good place to rest at all, mobilization be damned._

_“What a waste of time.”_

_At least, she thinks that. She wouldn't have even attacked them if one thing was different._

_That is, if she didn't have a fucking demon living inside her head._

_“I killed them, Pulse. Satisfied yet?”_

_A sturdy silence stirs up her cat-like anticipation._

**_I’ve yet to be pleased. There is one more thing I'd love to see dead at our hands today, provided you have the skills to make that happen. It's a new fiend that I sense, this one. No one knows about the sneaky thing. Not even those damned persistent heroes all around the world._ **

_A few months ago, Lightning wouldn’t take any more of this shit from some former god-turned demon. A few months ago, she’d dare to defy him, curse him for making her the person that she is today._

_She’d learned to listen to him the hard way. And she won’t let those accursed memories of defiance and tomfoolery consume her again._

_There’s only a little bit of that person left in the being that she is today. A semblance of Officer Farron in the sad husk of a human that she is now. It’s also this part of herself that keeps her obedient to this fucking demon._

_So she will obey him, as much as it would sicken her former self to do so._

_“Where’s this thing at, Pulse?”_

* * *

Of course, she doesn't tell him everything. Like the part about her sister, or what her real name used to be, or the whole emotion nonsense. None of the too-personal stuff, essentially. Only what's necessary to understand the important part.

**_I wonder how you will slip out safely from this predicament, my vessel._ **

Pulse’s cackle disrupts her mind.

_Screw you. I’ll find a way._

Since she can’t see the emotions twist Dragoon’s face with his weird-ass helmet in the way, she focuses on his actions, on how he draws the dagger away from her neck. How he seems to only see her keen eyes…

“Hm. So you kill endlessly because this demon wants you to,” he says, grabbing his spear and yanking it from her taut, bleeding leg. Her expression tightens from the roaring pain, and she sees a crimson flower of blood bloom from the deep wound. She refocuses on his glare, watches him dissect the bits of her soul he can decipher for any lies or half-truths. Then he looks away, and she instinctively reads that as giving up.

 _Good._ She’s making progress with this wannabe hero, at least.

He gazes at her again, but this time his head’s angled high enough so that she can spot his shadowed, lavender irises. Soon they shift every which way, unsure of what to do next, just like himself. Even though he’s still got the upper hand, his composure is stiff compared to hers; too uncomfortable, too lost. Without anything clear in her character to jab at like before, he’s left hesitating. The irony she finds in it is hilarious.

_No wonder the idiot wears that helmet. Without it, he’d look even more emotional._

Still, she doesn’t get how, despite all of that, he manages to make his voice sound so intimidating and calm. How he seems to steady himself when it seems he has no reason to maintain his composure. While his body movements relax over time from the previous shock, his expression still looks unbalanced, unsure.

“This demon may be the one puppeteering your strings, but you still decided to take the lives of many people, being able to fully control yourself. Such actions should not go unpunished.”

Lightning hates that his words break through her resolve for even a second, cracking through her tense, brutal expression for that amount of time before she remembers the conditions of her pact. Despite herself, though, she can’t deny them. 

“You’re right,” she admits, tone more tender but still rough with her trademark stoicism. “But I had no other choice. Letting that bastard fully possess me when he gave me the offer to still be in control of myself? Not in a billion years. And the world’s always been fucked up. People get away with bad things all the time. I would know. I used to be a cop. No matter how much people like you try to impose justice, somewhere there’ll always be wrongs that can’t be righted.”

“And I didn’t feel fulfilled when I was dying. More like I lived a wasted life. I was too weak. But I’m not anymore, now that I’m giving life another shot. So how the hell are you gonna go about my case? According to the shitty rules of this world, I’m a criminal for killing people. All kinds of people, from so-called ‘innocents’ you and I don’t know shit about to ‘freaks’ that were planning on killing more. All because _I_ had no other choice but to kill them. All because _I’m_ trying to make things right to the best of my ability with the little leeway I have. All because _I’m_ trying to make my contributions of goodwill to the world, no matter how fucked up the methods are according to society. And the only way _I_ can do that in my case is to kill people.”

The man leans closer into her personal space. “That is your excuse? You slaughter people because you believe in the long-run it will aid the world and humanity? What can you hope to accomplish with such obscene actions?”

Lightning swallows, buries down the sorrow that wants to clench her beautiful face, relinquishes newborn anger so that Pulse can’t find a reason to break their pact. “You really wanna know the whole fucking truth? Fine. I let someone close to me down. I don’t know if she’s dead or alive. But if making a deal with a demon means I’ve got a chance to find her and to bury her body if she’s dead? Or to mourn her if I can’t find her after I’ve searched everywhere? Or protect her if she’s alive? Or to kill other people when they’re begging for death? Then of course I’d fucking take it. I’ve put many out of their misery when they were begging for it and couldn’t do it themselves. I’m just doing my fair share with the limitations I’ve got after wasting so much time. I’m trying my damned hardest to make up for the failure I was. And if the world’s gonna go against me for doing it the only way I can? Then fuck it, _fuck_ it all. What I choose to do with my life is up to _me.”_

Silence slips between them both. Gritty wind rubs against her throbbing leg, channeling new pain through it. In the distance, a chorus of police sirens breaks their suffocating silence.

“Take me to the police, expose me, do whatever the hell you want. No matter what you do, you _won’t_ stop me.”

* * *

_Kain is not quite sure why the memories decide to race back at him right now of all times. But they reach for his heart, prying away at it, and they leave him hesitant to act. Too hesitant._

_“Why are you leaving so soon, Kain?” Rosa springs up from her seat, setting her thick book down without moving her gaze from him. Even though he does not glimpse her, he can imagine the distress that taints her serene face, the haste that unnerves her trademark grace when she approaches him._

_Kain faces her, expression firm with resolve yet soft with longing. “Because I am too weak, Rosa.”_

_She faintly nods, and the hurt that swims in her eyes when she looks away crushes the equilibrium of softness and resolve that balances his face. Lost, his sight falls to the ground, and his expression loses some of its firmness._

_It’s Rosa’s gaze that punctures some of his determination; Cecil’s forgiving and tender words that compel him to reconsider his choice to leave. They do not unsteady his resolve by much, but the feeling is still there, and he can’t ignore it. It’s always been there, lingering and haunting him._

_Kain wishes he could be many things. A courteous hero of Baron, well-respected by all. A man of honor, with no cowardice to hold him back. A man worthy of Rosa Joanna Farrell’s adoration._

_He does not want to be a man that merely chases the shadows of those he aspires to be, however. And over the years he’s spent in Baron, being nothing more than Cecil’s useless little sidekick, he has come to see the truth._

_Where Cecil would help a girl get her cat out of a tree, Kain would merely linger at the sidelines, because Cecil insisted he could get it out himself and Kain did not want to initiate any unnecessary conflict. Where Cecil could take out thirty men without breaking a sweat, Kain would feel the perspiration building on his face by the time he’d struck a fifteenth grunt down._

_All Kain can think about when it comes to these memories is time. How much time he’d wasted being such a useless fool, not doing enough good to make an impact in the world. How much time he spent selfishly taking refuge in Cecil’s shadow, undeserving of even a fraction of his friend’s nobility._

_It is this notion that reaffirms the determination in his face, then and now. And as the police sirens pound his ears with increasing intensity, his eyes still themselves. He considers this woman’s words, her situation. And then he instinctively thinks of the people he’s left behind, considers staying a good man — or at least, a decent man, given that his past actions made him unworthy of ever being considered a good one._

_She insists she will find a way out if he turns her in, and her eyes indicate no lies. He knows she is strong, inhumane. The only reason she has not struck him down with her magic is because he has not disclosed where he has left his motorcycle. And if she finds a way out if he turns her in, she will hurt more people that she would not need to hurt at all if she were not turned in._

_Kain will never forgive this woman for the crimes she has committed. He will always believe that sooner or later she must pay for them. But at the same time, he is done with his wasted past, with the time he has lost. He is tired. Tired from not saving or helping anyone. Tired from not making a true difference, residing in the shadows of those whose actions left a longer-lasting impact._

_Kain does not want to help this murderer. But he does know that if he joins her, that there is a chance that he will aid her. That for the first time in his life, he can very well make a difference in the world. Turning her in, on the other hand, would more likely than not cause more casualties, more unneeded deaths._

_Fine then. Let the world deem him a fugitive if he is caught. He was never a decent man, to begin with, after all._

_A crack in his resolve forms when he thinks this, but it is meek and small and distracting. It does not take him long to re-sturdy his determination._

_When he makes his choice, he no longer hesitates._

* * *

When Dragoon throws her on one of his broad shoulders, Lightning utters a curse, feeling fresh agony scourge her wound, but the high jump he makes is enough for the pain to become insignificant. Barely, she manages to keep a hold on her gun. Rainfall pounds her senses harder than before, but the feeling of flying keeps her from feeling disoriented. Below them, she can see red and blue lights flash through the heavy haze, right where she would have been found if he hadn’t jumped.

Eyes narrowing, she throws out the question without even having to think much. “Why?”

She hears him snort as he lands atop one of Besaid’s many rooftops, the impact making her jostle a bit in his grip.

“I have my reasons.”

* * *

An hour later, they’re far from Besaid, all alone, near a starlit sea. The rain’s gone, the sky is a clean, vibrant indigo again, but the sand all around them is damp and sticky.

Seated on the passenger seat of the motorcycle, Lightning’s arms and legs are crossed, and she’s looking at the blood-soaked material that’s wrapped around her aching leg. Dragoon stands beside her, looking out to the pristine ocean. She sighs, shifts her gaze so that she’s looking at the sea as well.

Lightning doesn’t fancy the notion of prying at someone who’s the reason she’s got a fucked up leg in the first place, but she’ll be damned if she can’t grasp why he decided to help her. 

So again, the question barrels past her lips. “Why’d you do it?”

“You will never stop asking until I answer clearly, will you?”

She shakes her head. Why does he have to be so goddamn difficult to deal with? She’s readying up a brutal retort, something along the lines of ‘cut the crap and answer already’ before he cuts off what she’s about to say.

“For reasons similar to yours,” he replies, his vocalization going along seamlessly with the sound of the crashing, soothing waves in the distance. “I have only begun to live a life with true purpose. A life worth living. One that I can make a difference with in this unfair world.”

It’s not in Lightning’s typical nature to believe everything she hears the first time around. Skepticism is her middle name, and she almost defaults to believing that he’s just spouting bullshit. But there’s something in the stare he penetrates her with, the stability of his stance, the stillness of his eyes that makes her reconsider that belief. And as much as she wants to push the question further, her gut tells her not to, because she knows that pushing people like him only makes them push back harder.

_It’s a good enough answer. For now._

So she decides to pop him another question.

“Obviously, Dragoon’s not your real name. What is it?”

A cruel twist yanks his lips, leaving a smirk. “Clearly, Lightning is not yours either. Pray tell, what is it?”

 _Fuck you._ Answering a question with another question. Of course dicks like him would do that.

“Tch. None of your business.”

“A predictable response,” he says, walking over to sit in the driver’s seat of the motorcycle. “We’ve prattled on long enough, haven’t we? I’m certain you’re boiling over ‘wasting time’, as you put it, no?”

Unfazed, Lightning rolls her eyes, grabbing the handles at her sides as she uncrosses her legs. _Point,_ she begrudgingly thinks.

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Just hurry the hell up.”

The motorcycle’s engine hums to life. “To where, rude wench?”

“Just as far away you can get from that seaside town, dick,” she responds. 

“As my lady decrees,” he says, tone raw with a subtle annoyance.

When they take off, cold, arid wind coats her senses. Seagulls take wing in the dark sky, fleeting silhouettes against a milk-white full moon.

From here on out, Lightning knows that things will never be the same.

_For better or for worse._

And so they move forward together as soon-to-be partners in crime.


	14. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sight of what Kain and Lightning do under the mistletoe that night shouldn't surprise him, but it does anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidays: I figured with Christmas being right around the corner that I should take a break from working on my upcoming angsty as hell novel-length project to write out a lighthearted, goofy Christmas prompt. Happy holidays to all. :)
> 
> M warning: Steeps a fair bit toward the M-rating at the end with a pinch of smut. It's not a lot, but it's there.
> 
> Cast: This one's not as Kain/Light-centric as previous prompts and focuses a bit on some other characters, specifically the 012 ones (because the 012 characters have such a sweet, entertaining dynamic that's too endearing to resist writing about — they're a big, happy found family!), but the overall story does concern an aspect of Light and Kain's relationship, so I decided to post it as a prompt here.
> 
> TCTNP: AKA my upcoming project. A specific release date hasn't been set in stone, but I'm considering publishing it sometime during the next two weeks, so keep your eyes peeled if you're interested.

_XIV - Mistletoe_

It's no secret that Laguna Loire _loves_ Christmas. Counting out the unbearable 32 degrees or lower temperature that's present during December, there's nothing about it he detests. The snow, the giving of presents, the hot chocolate. Even the rambunctious kids that go scrambling onto all the fake Santas's laps in the malls, pulling onto their beards and ordering them to keep them off the naughty list.

Pulling the screen of his phone — his device set to record mode — closer to his gaze, he marvels at the decorative display that is Tifa's home. Every year for Christmas Eve, she always surprises him with the sheer quantity of decor she has. Ruby ribbons align pastel walls along with flaxen-gold bells. Across from him, a fireplace emits radiant flames, the stockings above it filled to the brim with all sorts of goodies.

The prettiest sight to behold, though? The gold-silver themed Christmas tree. Its ribbons glisten in endless starlight that streaks through a window. The star at the tippy top of it is embedded with intricate designs, golden and striking.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Tifa walks in front of the phone camera, leaning forward with her hands to her back as her snowflake earrings chime to her movements. "I went all out this year."

Laguna grins, feels his ugly sweater rustle against him when he readjusts the view of his phone. "You sure did. Hell, I'd say you always do."

Tifa whips out a bottle from behind her back — a very nice, _very_ distinct bottle — that's got a bold word on the label that captures his eye, for both reasonable and wrong reasons.  'EGGNOG'.

"My gift to you," she says, waving it. "It can make you boozy. Just don't go overboard, okay? Don't want you getting hungover here. My house, my rules."

Laguna nods, and soon sweet, nourishing eggnog courses through his mouth and throat. He shifts the camera to focus on Kain and Lightning (how Tifa gets them to come every year, he has no clue). They're sitting together on a leather couch, clearly trying to look uninterested. But between Lightning's fleeting, occasionally wide-eyed stares and Kain's fiddling with his leather coat, Laguna knows the festive spirit is getting to them.

Tifa chuckles, looking at them. "You should see what's _above_ them."

There's nothing to stop Laguna from heeding that advice. And when he does, he'd be spitting out his drink in laughter if he didn't remember how strict Tifa could be about keeping her house clean.

A mistletoe. _Genius. Of course._

"It's only a matter of time until they kiss under it," Tifa says. "I mean, I know they're engaged and all, but seeing them do it in public? Hasn't happened yet. They're always so self-conscious. I wanted to get them out of their comfort zone a bit."

Unable to hold back his unsavory thoughts — probably because the booze is kicking in sooner than he thought it would — he laughs. "Not only by making them kiss under it, but well, you know… also by making them _fuck_ under it. I won’t be surprised if they have sex under it tonight.”

Not hesitating, Tifa slaps him on the arm. _Hard._ Not as bad as Light does, but enough so that he regrets his words. _"Laguna."_

 _"Crap._ My bad, ma'am."

He keeps the phone lens focused on them, decides to narrate the hardly-progressing events out when Tifa heads for the kitchen. "As you can see, the sexual tension keeps mounting, folks."

Lightning catches sight of him. Laguna can _hear_ her trademark, quiet sigh. "If you don't turn that off, I'm going to kill you."

Undeterred, he zooms in closer on her scowling face. Sometimes, Light doesn't kid around with what she says, but he knows she'd never outright murder him. "Nah, Grinch _numero uno._ You both should just make out already. If you two leave without doing that, bad luck’s gonna hit you both hard."

Kain speaks up this time. "Hmph. We'll only do so in your dreams, fool."

"Technically, Grinch _numero dos,_ you do it all the time at home. And do… other things too. At least, that's what Vaan said."

Lightning puts a hand to her face, the fabric of her turtleneck sweater seemingly glowing from the light of the fireplace and Christmas tree. "You listen to that brat's rumors?"

"Not always. But considering you two are super-duper secretive and engaged? It's easy to buy what he says about you guys."

* * *

"Ah, Sir Laguna? Pardon me…"

It's a delicate, female voice that calls his name, along with soft hands that brush against one of his shoulders. He stirs to the sound of it, hears his own snoring come to a stop. Sight undarkening, he awakens to see Yuna's serene, calm face. Azure and emerald eyes look over him, precious and relaxing. Entwining silk-soft fingers around her ivory scarf, she plays a little with it.

"Pardon me," she repeats, smile thinning out. "Have you seen Light and Sir Kain? It's almost time to open the presents, and Tifa is busy sorting them out."

Glancing down at his wristwatch and noticing the phone on his lap, Laguna lets out a whistle. No matter how hard he tries not to fall asleep on Christmas Eve, it always happens at some point. It got boring watching those two's asexual-like tendencies play out, so he gave in to sleep even faster than usual.

He stands, pops whatever bones are straining him when he does. Searches for a _very_ particular bottle and resists the urge to groan when he doesn't find it lying around on the floor or on a nearby table. Re-meeting her gaze, he smiles back.

"Why don't you help her sort out the gifts? I'll find 'em, sweetheart."

"Oh please, you needn't burden yourself."

Patting her on the shoulder, he winks. "Nah, it's fine. I've got a _good_ idea of where they're at, anyway."

Yuna nods, tilting her head slightly. "Okay then. Good luck, Sir Laguna."

* * *

Vaan's running down the crème-colored hallway when Laguna enters it. Clearly, Laguna observes, the (weirdly) shirtless teenager's losing what remaining innocence he's got faster than Global Warming is taking over Earth.

Vaan's hands are on his mouth, his face coated with tinges of red when Laguna catches him by a shoulder. 

Voice skittish with bizarre understanding yet firm with developing manhood, Vaan pipes up. "What?"

"Where did you see them, kiddo?"

Vaan aims his chin at one of the doors in the hallway's end. "Don't blame me if Light beats you to a pulp. _Please."_

Laguna nods, grins, lets him go and watches him run off before making his way to the door.

He knocks on the door, hopes they hear it over the blaring music they have playing in there. By some miracle, he and the others couldn't hear it from the living room. “Hey lovebirds, it’s time to open presents.”

No response. _Crap._ He had a feeling it would come to this…

 Hopefully, it can't be that bad, right? At the very least, she won't kill him outright. And at the worst, he'll probably just suffer some stinging smacks, a brutal retort or two from Kain, and a leg cramp or two.

He turns the chilly knob, slowly and carefully opens the door.

It all really shouldn't surprise him as much as it does. But between the mess of sheets and clothing that's splayed all over the velvet double bed — _Tifa's gonna be_ **_pissed_ ** — and the sight of his _very_ precious bottle lying empty on the floor, as well as the endless moaning that's coming from them and the sight of a sheet that barely conceals their rhythmic, back-and-forth-motioning interplay — all the little things add up into one big shock. And when he sees a _mistletoe_ hanging against the wall right above the bed's headboard, he nearly keels over.

As though the universe wants to torment him further, taking control of his life, he can't find it in himself to look away. So when a generous portion of Lightning's boob and the head of Kain's dick get uncovered by the sheets from their abrupt movements, there's nothing to stop his leg from acting up. 

He holds his leg, bites back the torture that sears through it. And above all else, along with the realization that Lightning's got her hawk-sharp gaze set on him and that he definitely won't get out of this entirely unscathed, the unwelcome revelation dawns him. That he, Laguna Loire, predicted that these two would be screwing under the mistletoe tonight.


	15. Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She remembers how to believe in the impossible that night thanks to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt: This is excerpted from my novel-length project, TCTNP. The chapter it's a part of has not yet been released. I figured since the excerpt could also be read on its own as an independent side story, I decided to post it as a prompt here too. So it's a slight repost of sorts; apologies for that.
> 
> Ships: It's safe to say I'm a shameless Lightning multi shipper at this point. I am currently working on a Caius/Lightning oneshot along with TCTNP at the time I'm posting this! Hell, I ship Faris/Lightning, Fang/Lightning, and Tifa/Lightning, among many others!

_XV - Believe_

The moon’s rising, colossal, radiant, and teeming a healthy silver that night. It’s so idiotic that Lightning wants to flip off the sight.

Six months so far of risking her life in this stupid as hell war in the slim hope that she’ll get to go back home, and yet, the moon and sun still rise and fall in this deadly, psychotic hellhole, like everything’s fine and normal. As if everyone here is living everyday lives, not nearly dying a number of times. It doesn’t fit right; that nice-looking stars and clouds and pretty stuff get to exist in this shitty place at all.

Clicking her tongue, Lightning intertwines her arms, ignoring the chill of the outside air that’s always doomed her bedroom to being a fridge. It’s so idiotic and nonsensical, all of this: living in some stupidly exposed tower when she’s not out there throwing herself in the face of destruction; serving some indifferent goddess that doesn’t give two shits about war strategy; the fakeness of it all.

She’s standing before her window. Milky whiteness of ageless marble seems to almost gleam in the moonlight, all around her. The silk-thin fabric of her camisole isn’t doing much to battle back the wind, but she doesn’t mind, really. The bitter weather’s refreshing. Unlike Cosmos, Sanctuary, and Chaos, it’s something that belongs in actual reality, and isn’t just made up from someplace that’s a twisted joke of a bedtime story.

Maybe that’s why most of the aspects of Dissidia piss her off so much. It’s based on what should be the make-believe. Myths, miracles, fairytales. Stupid shit that doesn’t make a lick of sense. Except now it’s worse because now there are actual lives on the line, some of which she feels responsible for maintaining, along with the fact it’s not just some harmless story. And it’s all because some gods couldn’t do the work themselves.

Screw the abstract. Gods, legends, fables, even hope. They don’t fit in with the real world, and Dissidia’s the epitome of why that is. Those concepts don’t work in existence. Not always, anyway. Or maybe not at all, actually.

Her eyebrows quirk at the mixed answers. She shifts her weight on an inclining leg, outstretching her other. She fumbles for the best answer, sharply knots her brow, hates that doubt is managing to cleave through her mind when it usually never does. She thinks she feels worse now.

Instinctively, she reaches for her namesake-shaped necklace, only to remember that she’s lost it. Lost that precious treasure a month ago, somewhere out there. Fuck. She _really_ does feel worse.

There’s no way it’s okay. Probably got screwed up by those Chaos assholes by now. But still, there’s a bit of herself, she thinks, that wants to… dream. But then she shuts it up, curses out loud. 

There’s the echo of her door being opened, and she tenses, pivoting around, arms whipping to her sides. It’s then that she remembers — _Ah, fuck_ — that besides her skin-tight camisole, the only other thing she’s got on is her plain panties (because her skirt and shorts smell like crap, and she’s got nothing else for bedtime). By the time the doorway’s exposed and she sees a tall, familiar man, she’s pulling down her shirt as much as she can. Tries to cover what she can.

Her hands remain at the rims of the bottom of her shirt, around her hips. Forcing a keen composure to align her expression, she scowls at Kain. Her oceanic eyes cut through the starlit room. “Knock on the door next time, jackass.”

Dressed in smooth slacks, barefoot just like she is, he makes an uninterested-sounding noise, walking forward with the poise of a professional soldier. Broad frame, broad biceps, broad steps. Effortlessly, he towers around a head higher than her. 

“I would have if you didn’t vulgarly tell me to leave the last time I knocked.” His ashen hair flows around an expression that’s somehow simultaneously distant and intense.

Unfazed, Lightning rolls with widening her range and intimidation, propping a knuckle on a hip and angling her chin higher. She does her best to ignore the upward peeling sensation at the bottom of her once-tugged camisole. “Why are you here?”

His mauve eyes scan her own intently. Almost as if in something of disappointment or disapproval. “I approach you whenever you’re brooding in your lonesome a trillion times, and yet you still ask?”

Lightning huffs, forcefully yanking down one side of her shirt again. Unevenly exposed, one half of her underwear lingers in his view, and she resists the itch to growl. “Well shit, it’s not like you could’ve picked a better time to do your stupid schtick. Or whatever.”

“Au contraire, sarcastic woman,” — Kain’s getting all smirky, risking a glance that’s lower, away from her face — “this was perchance the best time to do so.”

She’s been around him so long that she doesn’t get offended as she expects to at his prying gaze. It’s not like it’s the first time she’s been scantily dressed around him, anyway, now that she thinks about it. He’s been so close to her, actually, all these months, that she’s strangely… okay with it.

Not entirely. She’s still a little embarrassed, wearing less than what she typically does around other people. But, then again, that’s her with everyone. And she’s okay enough with his behavior to the point that she’s not considering decking him in the face for coming here and doing that, as she would do with any of the other guys if they dared.

It really doesn’t make sense to her. Him always being around her, her always putting up with his sophistic jargon. And now suddenly she can’t tell when she started to feel so… alright around him.

Her eyes grant passage, let him tread that boundary further.

“Oh, shut up,” she says, but the tone’s not as biting as she wants it to be. A smile wants to twist her lips, but she rejects it before hints of it show up. “Smartass.”

Kain’s eyes are focused on her own again, despite her previous consent. “Perhaps you may consider getting a thesaurus. Your retorts are becoming repetitive.”

Lightning turns away from him, draping her arms on the spiral-patterned windowsill, letting the haunting chill seep into her skin. She focuses on the inky night and its beautiful stars. “Hn. Your whole act is.”

“Are you so certain of that?” When he asks the question, she feels the warmth of his torso rush along her cold back, and before she can blink, there’s a flash of something metallic, shiny, pretty, dangling in front of her. And then the breath that barrels out of her lungs, she can barely keep it calm…

The oxidized, bronze-spotted pendant manages to take some pure moonlight captive. Its edges are impossibly intact, and when Kain perfectly hooks the necklace around her neck, the coldness soon lingers there, right around her chest. Right where it should be.

She wants to disbelieve it. But no, it’s _really_ right there, still fine and well… 

“Kain, you…” — she scrambles for a reserved response, presses eager fingers to the rough-textured jewelry, slowly re-faces him — “you found it.”

She wants it to sound like a question, but her articulation fails her.

There’s something between a smirk and a smile on his face, and he’s leaned in closer. “I was scouting the coasts of Cornelia Plains earlier today when I found it. I hadn’t had the chance to return it until now.”

Their stares persist on one another’s. For a long time. In gazing, she sometimes finds it okay to say “thanks”. But even though she’s getting her freezing irises to be more like the skies or seas, she finds that it’s not enough. 

Kain nods, gradually turning back to the door. “That is all. Now sleep well, lest you wish to wake up with eye bags.”

She’s hearing his footsteps on the tiled floor. Shit. She’s running out of time. Fuck a verbal thanks; he deserves something more. “Thanks” is intangible, forgettable, and too much of a pussy move to say. Screw tomorrow. Forget consequences. All that matters is that she’s gotta repay the damn favor right here and now, the way she believes is best.

So she runs. Runs before he’s even halfway to the door, her wild feet slapping against the frigid tiles. By the time he’s turned around with clearly held-back shock, she’s got her arms hooked around his neck, standing on her tippy toes. And when she puts her lips to his, she can sense the boiling restraint in the biceps that capture her arching waist in crisscrosses.

Saliva slides down their motioning chins, runs down her curves and his pectoral muscles. He nips her bottom lip, so she bites back on his upper one. She brushes fine hands along his steep cheekbones while his arms also change positions, strong fingers clawing along her scalp and shoulder-resting hair. 

She likes his warmth. His fervor.

It’s some time amid all of this, that Lightning realizes that, maybe, just maybe it doesn’t kill her to… hope or dream a little. To believe that the impossible can happen. In all kinds of ways.

A part of herself always felt that way, in fact. And now she’s realized that… or rather, remembered that.

And it’s all thanks to him.


	16. Dependence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normally, he takes to the bottle to cope with life's callousness. But this time, that is not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subject matter: This one tackles a sensitive subject matter: alcoholism. If that's not your thing, I suggest skipping.
> 
> Project progress: Chapter 3 of TCTNP is kicking my ass to write, but I'm slowly wading my way through the tough tides. 
> 
> Time: Wish I had more time to play FFXII: TZA because it's a blast. I like the nuanced emphasis on politics and Ivalice is a stunning world that I wish I could tangibly explore myself. Alas, I've had to put my playthrough on hold 'cause, you guessed it, life.

_XVI - Dependence_

It is with a slumped stature that Kain Highwind returns home.

The bottle in his hand, empty long before he got back to his residence. The room before him, cluttered and littered with some newspapers, magazines, and obsidian flasks.

The living room has the stench of disorder and uncleanliness. Windows that have plenty of sunlight to drown him with are obscured by stained, ancient-esque curtains, so the room is instead admonished with eternal gloom.

Kain feels there is nothing for him to do besides get more liquor. Rubbing his itchy stubble, he fights against the weight of the dark heavy dips beneath his eyes. He walks with a sluggish pace. _Foot after foot, flutter after flutter,_ he thinks.

He tosses his old, metallic-reeking keys on the dusty kitchen table, reaches for the nearest bottle while dropping the other one on the carpet floor. But when he takes another step forward to grab it, cracking glass sings in a tenuous threnody beneath one of his boots.

When Kain lifts his foot and sets his unwavering eyes on the thing below him, he doesn’t expect his gut and throat to ache at the sight.

He steps back, breathes in as much as his lungs can let him. Pulls the hood of his hoodie over his head a little further so his eyes are more obscured because he hates looking outwardly emotional like this. Even right in front of that picture. In front of anyone else, only a few strands of his hair, his nose and tightening mouth would be visible.

The broken wings of the picture, spread in gleaming feathers of glass, surround that gut-wrenching photograph of him, Cecil, and Rosa. It was already shattered, long before he stepped on it now. He doesn’t remember what exactly he did for the picture to end up there.

They’re so young in that photo. Back then, there was a chance to take the path Cecil took. To make things far too easy and unfitting for himself. To shape the road tomorrow would take to something easier to bear than what he’s going through now.

Kain remembers it all achingly well; their soft excuses and cloying forgiveness despite all the things he’d done to them in those days. Things he’d done out of messy feelings of spite and longing.

He grabs the bottle, pouts, takes a quick swig while returning to the dingy old living room. The strong taste that soaks his tongue dulls the inner turmoil that scratches his mind.

He plops down on one of the old leather couches, sighing. The photograph is etched in his psyche, again for what could be the hundredth time, all because he’s dared to re-glimpse it. Everything seems eerily still; fairly surreal.

He rubs tired fingers over a rigid brow, taking another generous sip before placing the bottle on the wooden coffee table.

And lo and behold. Another picture at the corner of his peripheral view, this one unframed and exposed to countless daunting elements. There are liquor stains on the crumpled paper, but yes, he can see his and her face well.

Theirs was a casual wedding. Lightning’s gown wasn’t anything too elegant, something fairly simple and short (she always hated wearing long, flowy stuff). And even though her white dress is marred by bitter blots of alcohol and the whole photo is discolored, Kain remembers how perfectly clean her dress was. 

 _How time carries on with such swiftness._ He remembers her devastating words before she slammed the door on him for the last time. The repercussion of betrayal in her eyes when back then he dared to look too much at Rosa when she and Cecil weren’t as close. When he did those things in the dark with — 

 _Enough._ He takes to the bottle again for its nostalgic benediction. Glug, glug, _glug._

Right there, at the worst possible timing, the doorbell rings. He questions if he really should answer it.

Glug.

A racket of hurried knocks.

 _Almost_ another glug, even though he can hold his liquor well.

The door opens, and sunlight strikes him dead in the face, warm and too much for him to take. Studious footsteps approach him. He doesn't need to look up to know who it is, so he keeps his head down, low.

"Christ, you didn't even lock the door." There, she leans in front of his face, so close that he can't avoid her needling glare. "You're really a piece of work, Kain."

He decides it's best not to reply and just sits stock-still in place. He knows she can't see his eyes from there, so he feels secure, even though that doesn't stop his clenching mouth from feeling labored.

Lightning sighs back, and he hears her walk away from him. He takes a mental note of his growing discomfort when she starts kneeling on the ground, picking up the disheveled newspapers and magazines with graceful, albeit anger-hastened movements. The hand she snatches them with is vein-laced, and it crushes the stuff with cruel effort.

"And here I thought you were a functioning alcoholic," she says, vocalization strained by her labor. "Apparently, you're a functioning one bordering on dysfunctional. How the hell haven't you gotten in a car wreck yet?"

Kain again doesn't rise to the inquiry, just takes in her appearance. Her hair is tied in a loose ponytail that lingers on the shoulder it always inhabits. Her red, nigh-sleeveless turtleneck is a vibrant anomaly in this room. Her shorts and bright sneakers also stick out like a sore thumb.

Gazing back at the beverage, he groans as he grabs it. He goes for another sip, but her cold fingers pry the bottle away from his frail grip.

He scowls at her but can't find the motivation to take it back. No matter. He'll grab another when he can. He needs it so badly, but he can afford to wait a few minutes. He only needs it immediately when his past haunts him too much. 

"Look, it's hard enough playing housemaid for you even though I don't have to. This crap is a big reason why we're divorced. Stop drinking."

Ah, yes. He's heard that one a million times from her mouth. Kain wonders why Lightning thinks vulgar repetition will somehow get him to change his ways.

Lightning huffs, taking the bundle of shoddy papers in one arm and the bottle in the other to the kitchen. She's out of his view, but she doesn't stop talking, much to his displeasure.

"I don't know how you're making a living like this. This place is a shithole."

The sound of papers being recycled, followed by a bottle being emptied before being discarded.

"You know, I liked you better when you talked more. Annoying as hell to put up with your sophisticated nonsense, but also stupidly… charming, I guess. Now you don't say diddly-squat."

Lightning returns to the room with a rag and furniture spray in hand. She quickly goes to work, clearing off the coffee table. She's again close to him.

He watches her pick up the photograph. She scoffs, handing it to him to get the picture out of the way. "Some pipe dream of a life that was."

Kain grunts in response, hurriedly shoving away the photo into one of his hoodie's pockets. He'd really like to have another drink again. Yes. He needs it. It is the only aid to this very heartache that comes whenever he falls back to his past after seeing far too many traces of it.

This time, he makes his way for the kitchen. But then Lightning's got a cold grip on him before he's moved four steps.

"No more drinking."

Kain's scowl flourishes. He gains the energy to turn to face her, the will to lower his hood enough so that she can spy an eye or two of his.

Finally, he says something. "And why not?"

"Look at what it does to you." She gestures with her head to the whole room. "Your life. Shit, are you _blind?"_

Kain's eyes squint, sharp daggers pinpointed on her countenance. Something new in his heart hurts him, and his face retreats back into his hood.

He can tell she's trying. Really trying to see his soul as she steps closer, leaning in to catch the gaze he's once more hidden from her view. The shadows aren't aiding him as well as before, so he steps back. Lightning's grip on his wrist tightens, blockading much of the circulation. Even though she squeezes hard, the eyes she wields, while brutal, are interlaced with a type of yearning he knows all too well.

It gives him that heartache, but in a different kind of way. In a way that feels more… acceptable and tolerable.

He's already let her see a hint of his spirit. There's no stopping her now. So, with a firm huff, he lowers the hood entirely, barring everything there is to see.

Her face looks like it's enduring an epiphany. One that's trying too hard to look reserved and unaffected.

"No," he eventually answers, feeling her release him. "I… I’m just — "

"Stop," she commands with a softening lilt. "It's fine. I understand now."

Nothing really is fine. But Kain knows what she truly means, between the way she looks at him and how she sounds. 

When she guides him back to the couch, soon tossing him a blanket with a sigh, he decides that maybe, just maybe for these few minutes, that another drink can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alcoholism: To be frank, this is my first time writing about a sensitive issue like this. So I hope I didn't execute anything stupidly or awkwardly without knowing. I did some general research and used a functioning alcoholic relative of mine as an IRL reference.


End file.
